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THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/makingofamerican00riis_3 


Jacob  A.  Riis. 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN 
AMERICAN 


BY 

JACOB  A.  RIIS 

AUTHOR  OF  “HOW  THE  OTHER  HALF  LIVES,’*  “A  TEN 

years’  war,”  “out  of  mulberry  street,”  etc. 


JVITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Neill  gork 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON  : MACMILLAN  & CO.,  Ltd. 

1904 


All  rights  reser'ved 


Copyright,  1901, 

By  the  outlook  COMPANY. 


Copyright,  1901, 

By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  November,  1901.  Reprinted  December, 
twice,  1901  ; January,  1902;  February,  March,  1902  ; May,  October, 
1902:  June,  1903;  May,  1904. 


Norwood  Press 

y.  S.  Cushing  Sf  Co.  — Berwick  Smith 
Norwood^  Mass.y  U.S.A. 


GLilV  CEwTEk  LiBjvARY 


Ea 

LAMMET 


TO  THE  READER 


The  papers  which  form  this  autobiography  were 
originally  published  in  The  Outlook,  the  chapter 
telling  of  my  going  “ home  to  mother  ” in  The 
Churcimtan,  and  parts  of  one  or  two  others  in  The 
Century  Magazine.  To  those  who  have  been  ask- 
ing if  they  are  made-up  stories,  let  me  say  here  that 
they  are  not.  And  I am  mighty  glad  they  are  not. 
I would  not  have  missed  being  in  it  all  for  any- 
thing. 


Richmond  Hill,  N.Y., 
October,  1901. 


J.  A.  R. 


7 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

The  Meeting  on  the  Long  Bridge i 

CHAPTER  II 

I LAND  IN  New  York  and  take  a Hand  in  the  Game  . 35 

CHAPTER  HI 

I go  to  War  at  last,  and  sow  the  Seed  of  Future 

Campaigns 58 

CHAPTER  IV 

Working  and  Wandering 78 

CHAPTER  V 

I GO  INTO  Business,  headlong 10 1 

CHAPTER  VI 

In  which  I BECOME  AN  EDITOR  AND  RECEIVE  MY  FiRST  LOVE 

Letter 126 

CHAPTER  VII 

Elizabeth  tells  her  Story 152 

CHAPTER  VIII 

Early  Married  Life;  I become  an  Advertising  Bureau; 

ON  THE  “Tribune” 175 

ix 


X 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  IX 

PAGE 

Life  in  Mulberry  Street 200 

CHAPTER  X 

My  Dog  is  avenged 234 

CHAPTER  XI 

The  Bend  is  laid  by  the  Heels 263 

CHAPTER  XII 

I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR  AND  RESUME  MY  INTERRUPTED  CAREER 


AS  A Lecturer 297 

CHAPTER  XIII 

Roosevelt  comes  — Mulberry  Street’s  Golden  Age  . 325 

CHAPTER  XIV 


I TRY  TO  GO  TO  THE  WAR  FOR  THE  THIRD  AND  LAST  TiME  360 

CHAPTER  XV 

When  I went  Home  to  Mother 391 

CHAPTER  XVI 

The  American  Made .421 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Jacob  A.  Riis 


Frontispiece 

PAGE 


Our  Stork i 

The  Meeting  on  the  Long  Bridge  ....  facing  2 

Ribe,  from  the  Castle  Hill 6 

The  View  the  Stork  got  of  the  Old  Town 9 

The  Domkirke 10 

Within  the  Domkirke  . . . . . . . . .11 

Mother 13 

The  Deserted  Quay 15 

Downstream,  where  Ships  sailed  once  . . . . . • 17 

A Cobblestone-paved  Alley  20 

Father 23 

My  Childhood’s  Home 26 

Down  by  her  Garden,  on  the  River  Nibs  . . . facing  31 

The  Picture  her  Mother  gave  me  ......  33 

Brady’s  Bend  as  I knew  it  . 41 

“ I found  the  valley  deserted  and  dead  ” 48 

“ The  dead  were  much  better  company  ” .....  59 

Lunching  at  Delmonico’s 67 

The  Fight  on  the  Police  Station  Steps  .....  73 

“ There  I set  my  traps  82 

Our  Old  Pastor 97 

When  I worked  in  the  Bulfalo  Ship-yard  .....  99 

‘‘  One  end  of  the  town  was  burning  while  I was  canvassing  the 

other” 104 

“I  went  to  hear  Horace  Greeley  address  an  open-air  meeting”  . 109 

xi 


Xll 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ The  wide  world  seemed  suddenly  a cold  and  far-off  place 

Hard  Times  ” 

Brother  Simmons  {the  Rev.  Ichabod  Sim7nons^ 

The  Letter 

Elizabeth’s  Mother 

Elizabeth’s  Home  — ‘‘The  Castle” 

Elizabeth  as  I found  her  again 
“ I was  face  to  face  with  my  father  ” 

Bringing  the  “ Loved-up  ” Flowers  ....  facing 
“Out  into  the  open  country,  into  the  wide  world,  — our  life’s 
journey  had  begun  ... 

Mulberry  Street 197 

Tribune  Police  Bureau 202 

“In  which  lay  dying  a French  nobleman  of  proud  and  ancient 
name  ” ^ . 

Our  Office  — my  Partner,  Mr.  Ensign,  at  the  Desk,  I in  the  Corner 
“ About  that  interview,  now,”  he  drawled  ..... 

“ The  carriage  went  on  ” 


PAGE 

III 

121 

134 

149 

153 

155 

164 

170 

173 

174 


“ The  General  said  never  a word  ” . . . . facing 

Dr.  Roger  S.  Tracy  ......... 

V2cc\i^x  {Chief  of  the  Six  Nations^  .... 

The  Lodging-room  at  the  Leonard  Street  Police  Station 
The  Church  Street  Station  Lodging-room,  in  which  I was  robbed 

The  Yellow  Newspapers’  Contribution 

The  Mulberry  Bend  as  it  was  ....... 

“ The  tenants  bolted  through  the  windows  ” .... 

Lodgers  at  Five  Cents  a Spot  ....... 

Bandits’  Roost  — a Mulberry  Bend  Alley 

Bottle  Alley,  Mulberry  Bend.  Headquarters  of  the  Whyo  Gang  . 

The  Mulberry  Bend  as  it  is 
My  Little  Ones  gathering  Daisies  for  “the  Poors”  . facing  287 
Mr.  Lowell’s  Letter  .........  308 

The  Boys’  “Playground”  in  an  Old-time  School  . . . *313 


205 

213 

218 

220 

225 

243 

245 

254 

258 

261 

265 

269 

273 

276 

279 

283 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  xiii 

PAGE 

Typical  East  Side  Tenement  Block  {^five  hundred  babies  in  it^ 

not  one  bath-tub^  . . . . . . . . -320 

President  Theodore  Roosevelt,  of  the  Police  Board  . fo-cing  328 

“ One  was  sitting  asleep  on  a butter-tub” 331 

Chief  of  Police  Thomas  Byrnes  .......  340 

The  Mott  Street  Barracks 348 

Gotham  Court 351 

A Tenement  House  Air-shaft 355 

The  School  of  the  New  Day 364 

The  Way  to  prevent  the  Manufacture  of  Toughs  ” . . . 369 

Ribe,  in  my  Childhood  {seen  fro?n  Elisabeth'' s Garden)  . . 392 

At  Home  in  the  Old  Town  {the  last  time  %ve  were  all  together)  . 398 

“ The  ‘ gossip  benches  ’ are  filled  ” . . . . . .401 

The  Extinct  Chimney-sweep 405 

The  Ancient  Bellwoman  ........  407 

The  Village  Express  .........  409 

Holy  Andrew’s  Cross 414 

Sir  Asker  Ryg’s  Church  at  Fjennesloevlille 417 

“ Horse-meat  to-day  ! ” ........  419 

The  Cross  of  Dannebrog 421 

After  Twenty-five  Years facing  424 

King  Christian  as  I saw  him  last .......  428 

The  Jacob  A.  Riis  House  {No.  50  Henry  Street.,  New  York)  facing  430 
Christmas  Eve  with  the  King’s  Daughters  .....  433 

James  Tanner 435 

“ The  little  ones  from  Cherry  Street” 437 

My  Silver  Bride  ..........  440 

Here  comes  the  Baby  ! ........  441 

“ That  minute  1 knew  ” ......  facing  443 


r 


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THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  ancient 
town  of  Ribe,  on  the  Danish 
north  seacoast,  a wooden 
bridge  spanned  the  Nibs 
River  when  I was  a boy  — 
a frail  structure,  with  twin 
arches  like  the  humps  of  a 
dromedary,  for  boats  to  go 
under.  Upon  it  my  story 
begins.  The  bridge  is  long 
since  gone.  The  grass-grown 
lane  that  knew  our  romping  feet 
Our  stork.  leads  nowhere  now.  But  in  my 
memory  it  is  all  as  it  was  that  day  nearly  forty 
years  ago,  and  it  is  always  summer  there.  The 
bees  are  droning  among  the  forget-me-nots  that 
grow  along  shore,  and  the  swans  arch  their  necks 
in  the  limpid  stream.  The  clatter  of  the  mill-wheel 
down  at  the  dam  comes  up  with  drowsy  hum ; the 


1 


2 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


sweet  smells  of  meadow  and  field  are  in  the  air. 
On  the  bridge  a boy  and  a girl  have  met. 

He  whistles  a tune,  boy-fashion,  with  worsted 
jacket  slung  across  his  arm,  on  his  way  home 
from  the  carpenter  shop  to  his  midday  meal. 
When  she  has  passed  he  stands  looking  after  her, 
all  the  music  gone  out  of  him.  At  the  other  end 
of  the  bridge  she  turns  with  the  feeling  that  he 
is  looking,  and,  when  she  sees  that  he  is,  goes  on 
with  a little  toss  of  her  pretty  head.  As  she  stands 
one  brief  moment  there  with  the  roguish  look,  she 
is  to  stand  in  his  heart  forever  — a sweet  girlish 
figure,  in  jacket  of  gray,  black-embroidered,  with 
schoolbooks  and  pretty  bronzed  boots  — 

“ With  tassels  ! ” says  my  wife,  maliciously  — she 
has  been  looking  over  my  shoulder.  Well,  with 
tassels ! What  then  ? Did  I not  worship  a pair 
of  boots  with  tassels  which  I passed  in  a shop 
window  in  Copenhagen  every  day  for  a whole 
year,  because  they  were  the  only  other  pair  I ever 
saw  ? I don’t  know  — there  may  have  been  more  ; 
perhaps  others  wore  them.  I know  she  did.  Curls 
she  had,  too  — curls  of  yellow  gold.  Why  do  girls 
not  have  curls  these  days  ? It  is  such  a rare  thing 
to  see  them,  that  when  you  do  you  feel  like  walking 
behind  them  miles  and  miles  just  to  feast  your  eyes. 
Too  much  bother,  says  my  daughter.  Bother 
Why,  I have  carried  one  of  your  mother’s,  miss/ 


The  Meeting  on  the  Long  Bridge, 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  3 

all  these  — there,  I shall  not  say  how  long  — and 
carry  it  still.  Bother  ? Great  Scott ! 

And  is  this  going  to  be  a love  story,  then? 
Well,  I have  turned  it  over  and  over,  and  looked 
at  it  from  every  angle,  but  if  I am  to  tell  the  truth, 
as  I promised,  I don’t  see  how  it  can  be  helped. 
If  I am  to  do  that,  I must  begin  at  the  Long  Bridge. 
I stepped  on  it  that  day  a boy,  and  came  off  it  with 
the  fixed  purpose  of  a man.  How  I stuck  to  it  is 
part  of  the  story  — the  best  part,  to  my  thinking; 
and  I ought  to  know,  seeing  that  our  silver  wedding 
comes  this  March.  Silver  wedding,  humph!  She 
isn’t  a week  older  than  the  day  I married  her  — not 
a week.  It  was  all  in  the  way  of  her  that  I came 
here ; though  at  the  time  I am  speaking  of  I rather 
guessed  than  knew  it  was  Elizabeth.  She  lived 
over  there  beyond  the  bridge.  We  had  been  chil- 
dren together.  I suppose  I had  seen  her  a thou- 
sand times  before  without  noticing.  In  school  1 
had  heard  the  boys  trading  in  her  for  marbles  and 
brass  buttons  as  a partner  at  dances  and  games  — 
generally  trading  off  the  other  girls  for  her.  She 
was  such  a pretty  dancer ! I was  not.  “ Soldiers 
and  robbers  ” was  more  to  my  taste.  That  any 

girl,  with  curls  or  without,  should  be  worth  a good 
marble,  or  a regimental  button  with  a sound  eye, 
that  could  be  strung,  was  rank  foolishness  to  me 
until  that  day  on  the  bridge. 


4 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


And  now  I shall  have  to  recross  it  after  all,  to 
tell  who  and  what  we  were,  that  we  may  start  fair. 
I shall  have  to  go  slow,  too,  for  back  of  that  day 
everything  seems  very  indistinct  and  strange.  A 
few  things  stand  out  more  clearly  than  the  rest. 
The  day,  for  instance,  when  I was  first  dragged  off 
to  school  by  an  avenging  housemaid  and  thrust 
howling  into  an  empty  hogshead  by  the  ogre  of  a 
schoolmarm,  who,  when  she  had  put  the.  lid  on, 
gnashed  her  yellow  teeth  at  the  bunghole  and  told 
me  that  so  bad  boys  were  dealt  with  in  school.  At 
recess  she  had  me  up  to  the  pig-pen  in  the  yard  as 
a further  warning.  The  pig  had  a slit  in  the  ear. 
It  was  for  being  lazy,  she  explained,  and  showed  me 
the  shears.  Boys  were  no  better  than  pigs.  Some 
were  worse ; then  — a jab  at  the  air  with  the  scis- 
sors told  the  rest.  Poor  father ! He  was  a school- 
master, too ; how  much  sorrow  it  might  have  spared 
him  had  he  known  of  this ! But  we  were  too  scared 
to  tell,  I suppose.  He  had  set  his  heart  upon  my 
taking  up  his  calling,  and  I hated  the  school  from 
the  day  I first  saw  it.  Small  wonder.  The  only 
study  he  succeeded  in  interesting  me  in  was  Eng- 
lish, because  Charles  Dickens’s  paper,  All  the  Year 
Round,  came  to  the  house  with  stories  ever  so 
much  more  alluring  than  the  tedious  grammar. 
He  was  of  the  old  dispensation,  wedded  to  the 
old  ways.  But  the  short  cut  I took  to  knowl- 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  5 

edge  in  that  branch  I think  opened  his  eyes  to 
some  things  ahead  of  his  time.  Their  day  had 
not  yet  come.  He  lived  to  see  it  dawn  and 
was  glad.  I know  how  he  felt  about  it.  I my- 
self have  lived  down  the  day  of  the  hogshead 
in  the  child-life  of  New  York.  Some  of  the 
schools  our  women  made  an  end  of  a few  years 
ago  weren’t  much  better.  To  help  clean  them 
out  was  like  getting  square  with  the  ogre  that 
plagued  my  childhood. 

I mind,  too,  my  first  collision  with  the  tenement. 
There  was  just  one,  and  it  stood  over  against  the 
castle  hill,  separated  from  it  only  by  the  dry  moat. 
We  called  it  Rag  Hall,  and  I guess  it  deserved  the 
name.  Ribe  was  a very  old  town.  Five  hundred 
years  ago  or  so  it  had  been  the  seat  of  the  fighting 
kings,  when  Denmark  was  a power  to  be  reckoned 
with.  There  they  were  handy  when  trouble  broke 
out  with  the  German  barons  to  the  south.  But  the 
times  changed,  and  of  all  its  greatness  there  re- 
mained to  Ribe  only  its  famed  cathedral,  with  eight 
centuries  upon  its  hoary  head,  and  its  Latin  School. 
Of  the  castle  of  the  Valdemars  there  was  left  only 
this  green  hill  with  solemn  sheep  browsing  upon  it 
and  ba-a-a-ing  into  the  sunset.  In  the  moats,  where 
once  ships  sailed  in  from  the  sea,  great  billowy 
masses  of  reeds  ever  bent  and  swayed  under  the 
west  wind  that  swept  over  the  meadows.  They 


6 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


grew  much  taller  than  our  heads,  and  we  boys 
loved  to  play  in  them,  to  track  the  tiger  or  the 
grizzly  to  its  lair,  not  without  creeping  shudders  at 
the  peril  that  might  lie  in  ambush  at  the  next  turn ; 
or,  hidden  deep  down  among  them,  we  lay  and 
watched  the  white  clouds  go  overhead  and  listened 
to  the  reeds  whispering  of  the  great  days  and 
deeds  that  were. 

The  castle  hill  was  the  only  high  ground  about 
the  town.  It  was  said  in  some  book  of  travel  that 


one  might  see  twenty-four  miles  in  any  direction 
from  Ribe,  lying  flat  on  one’s  back;  but  that  was 
drawing  the  long  bow.  Flat  the  landscape  was, 
undeniably.  From  the  top  of  the  castle  hill  we 
could  see  the  sun  setting  upon  the  sea,  and  the 
islands  lying  high  in  fine  weather,  as  if  floating  in 
the  air,  the  Nibs  winding  its  silvery  way  through 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


7 


the  green  fields.  Not  a tree,  hardly  a house,  hin- 
dered the  view.  It  was  grass,  all  grass,  for  miles, 
to  the  sand  dunes  and  the  beach.  Strangers  went 
into  ecstasy  over  the  little  woodland  patch  down  by 
the  Long  Bridge,  and  very  sweet  and  pretty  it  was ; 
but  to  me,  who  was  born  there,  the  wide  view  to  the 
sea,  the  green  meadows,  with  the  lonesome  flight 
of  the  shore-birds  and  the  curlew’s  call  in  the 
night-watches,  were  dearer  far,  with  all  their  melan- 
choly. More  than  mountains  in  their  majesty ; 
more,  infinitely  more,  than  the  city  of  teeming 
millions  with  all  its  wealth  and  might,  they  seem 
to  me  to  typify  human  freedom  and  the  struggle 
for  it.  Thence  came  the  vikings  that  roved  the 
seas,  serving  no  man  as  mr.ster;  and  through  the 
dark  ages  of  feudalism  no  lord  long  bent  the  neck 
of  those  stout  yeomen  to  the  yoke.  Germany,  for- 
getting honor,  treaties,  and  history,  is  trying  to  do 
it  now  in  Slesvig,  south  of  the  Nibs,  and  she  will  as 
surely  fail.  The  day  of  long-delayed  justice,  when 
dynasties  by  the  grace  of  God  shall  have  been  re- 
placed by  government  by  right  of  the  people,  will 
find  them  unconquered  still. 

Alas ! I am  afraid  that  thirty  years  in  the  land  of 
my  children’s  birth  have  left  me  as  much  of  a Dane 
as  ever.  I no  sooner  climb  the  castle  hill  than  I am 
fighting  tooth  and  nail  the  hereditary  foes  of  my 
people  whom  it  was  built  high  to  bar.  Yet,  would 


8 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


you  have  it  otherwise  ? What  sort  of  a husband  is 
the  man  going  to  make  who  begins  by  pitching  his 
old  mother  out  of  the  door  to  make  room  for  his 
wife  ? And  what  sort  of  a wife  would  she  be  to 
ask  or  to  stand  it  ? 

But  I was  speaking  of  the  tenement  by  the  moat. 
It  was  a ramshackle,  two-story  affair  with  shiftless 
tenants  and  ragged  children.  Looking  back  now, 
I think  likely  it  was  the  contrast  of  its  desolation 
with  the  green  hill  and  the  fields  I loved,  of  its 
darkness  and  human  misery  and  inefficiency  with 
the  valiant  fighting  men  of  my  boyish  dreams,  that 
so  impressed  me.  I believe  it  because  it  is  so  now. 
Over  against  the  tenement  that  we  fight  in  our 
cities  ever  rises  in  my  mind  the  fields,  the  woods, 
God’s  open  sky,  as  accuser  and  witness  that  His 
temple  is  being  so  defiled,  man  so  dwarfed  in  body 
and  soul. 

I know  that  Rag  Hall  displeased  me  very  much. 
I presume  there  must  have  been  something  of  an 
inquiring  Yankee  twist  to  my  make-up,  for  the  boys 
called  me  “Jacob  the  delver,”  mainly  because  of  my 
constant  bothering  with  the  sewerage  of  our  house, 
which  was  of  the  most  primitive  kind.  An  open 
gutter  that  was  full  of  rats  led  under  the  house  to 
the  likewise  open  gutter  of  the  street.  That  was 
all  there  was  of  it,  and  very  bad  it  was ; but  it  had 
always  been  so,  and  as,  consequently,  it  could  not 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


9 


The  View  the  Stork  got  of  the  Old  Town. 


be  otherwise,  my  energies  spent  themselves  in  un- 
ending warfare  with  those  rats,  whose  nests  choked 
the  gutter.  I could  hardly  have  been  over  twelve 
or  thirteen  when  Rag  Hall  challenged  my  resent- 
ment. My  methods  in  dealing  with  it  had  at  least 
the  merit  of  directness,  if  they  added  nothing  to  the 
sum  of  human  knowledge  or  happiness.  I had  re- 
ceived a “ mark,”  which  was  a coin  like  our  silver 
quarter,  on  Christmas  Eve,  and  I hied  myself  to 
Rag  Hall  at  once  to  divide  it  with  the  poorest 
family  there,  on  the  express  condition  that  they 
should  tidy  up  things,  especially  those  children,  and 
generally  change  their  way  of  living.  The  man 
took  the  money  — I have  a vague  recollection  of 


10 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


seeing  a stunned  look  on  his  face  — and,  I believe, 
brought  it  back  to  our  house  to  see  if  it  was  all 
right,  thereby  giving  me  great  offence.  But  he  did 
the  best  for  himself  that  way,  for  so  Rag  Hall  came 
under  the  notice  of  my  mother  too.  And  there 
really  was  some  whitewashing  done,  and  the  chil- 


The  Domkirke. 

dren  were  cleaned  up  for  a season.  So  that  the 
eight  skilling  were,  if  not  wisely,  yet  well  invested, 
after  all. 

No  doubt  Christmas  had  something  to  do  with 
it.  Poverty  and  misery  always  seem  to  jar  more  at 
the  time  when  the  whole  world  makes  merry.  We 
took  an  entire  week  off  to  keep  Christmas  in.  Til! 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


II 


after  New  Year’s  Day  no  one  thought  of  anything 
else.  The  “ Holy  Eve  ” was  the  greatest  of  the 
year.  Then  the  Domkirke  shone  with  a thousand 
wax  candles  that  made  the  gloom  in  the  deep  re- 
cesses behind  the  granite  pillars  seem  deeper  still, 
and  brought  out  the  picture  of  the  Virgin  Mary 
and  her  child,  long  hidden  under  the  whitewash  of 


Within  the  Domkirke. 


the  Reformation,  and  so  preserved  to  our  day  by 
the  very  means  taken  to  destroy  it.  The  people 
sang  the  dear  old  hymns  about  the  child  cradled  in 
the  manger,  and  mother’s  tears  fell  in  her  hymn- 
book.  Dear  old  mother ! She  had  a house  full, 
and  little  enough  to  manage  with ; but  never  one 
went  hungry  or  unhelped  from  her  door.  I am  a 
believer  in  organized,  systematic  charity  upon  the 
evidence  of  my  senses;  but — I am  glad  we  have 


12 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


that  one  season  in  which  we  can  forget  our  prin- 
ciples and  err  on  the  side  of  mercy,  that  little  cor- 
ner in  the  days  of  the  dying  year  for  sentiment  and 
no  questions  asked.  No  need  to  be  afraid.  It 
is  safe.  Christmas  charity  never  corrupts.  Love 
keeps  it  sweet  and  good  — the  love  He  brought 
into  the  world  at  Christmas  to  temper  the  hard 
reason  of  man.  Let  it  loose  for  that  little  spell. 
January  comes  soon  enough  with  its  long  cold. 
Always  it  seems  to  me  the  longest  month  in  the 
year.  It  is  so  far  to  another  Christmas ! 

To  say  that  Ribe  was  an  old  town  hardly  de- 
scribes it  to  readers  at  this  day.  A town  might  be 
old  and  yet  have  kept  step  with  time.  In  my  day 
Ribe  had  not.  It  had  never  changed  its  step  or 
its  ways  since  whale-oil  lanterns  first  hung  in  iron 
chains  across  its  cobblestone-paved  streets  to  light 
them  at  night.  There  they  hung  yet,  every  rusty 
link  squeaking  dolefully  in  the  wind  that  never 
ceased  blowing  from  the  sea.  Coal-oil,  just  come 
from  America,  was  regarded  as  a dangerous  inno- 
vation. I remember  buying  a bottle  of  “ Pennsyl- 
vania oil  ” at  the  grocer’s  for  eight  skilling,  as  a 
doubtful  domestic  experiment.  Steel  pens  had 
not  crowded  out  the  old-fashioned  goose-quill,  and 
pen-knives  meant  just  what  their  name  implies. 
Matches  were  yet  of  the  future.  We  carried  tinder- 
boxes  to  strike  fire  with.  People  shook  their  heads 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


13 


at  the  telegraph.  The  day  of  the  stage-coach  was 
not  yet  past.  Steamboat  and  railroad  had  not  come 
within  forty  miles  of  the  town,  and  only  one  steam 
factory  — a cotton  mill  that  was  owned  by  Eliza- 
beth’s father.  At  the  time  of  the  beginning  of 
my  story,  he,  having 
made  much  money 
during  the  early  years 
of  the  American  war 
through  foresight  in 
having  supplied  him- 
self with  cotton,  was 
building  another  and 
larger,  and  I helped 
to  put  it  up.  Of 
progress  and  enter- 
prise he  held  an  ab- 
solute monopoly  in 
Ribe,  and  though  he 
employed  more  than 
half  of  its  working 
force,  it  is  not  far  from  the  truth  that  he  was 
unpopular  on  that  account.  It  could  not  be  well 
otherwise  in  a town  whose  militia  company  yet 
drilled  with  flint-lock  muskets.  Those  we  had  in 
the  school  for  the  use  of  the  big  boys  — dreadful 
old  blunderbusses  of  the  pre-Napoleonic  era  — were 
of  the  same  pattern.  I remember  the  fright  that 


Mother. 


14 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


seized  our  worthy  rector  when  the  German  army 
was  approaching  in  the  winter  of  1863,  and  the 
haste  they  made  to  pack  them  all  up  in  a box  and 
send  them  out  to  be  sunk  in  the  deep,  lest  they  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  enemy;  and  the  consterna- 
tion that  sat  upon  their  faces  when  they  saw  the 
Prussian  needle-guns. 

The  watchmen  still  cried  the  hour  at  night. 
They  do,  for  that  matter,  yet.  The  railroad  came 
to  town  and  the  march  of  improvement  struck  it, 
after  I had  gone  away.  Century-old  institutions 
were  ruthlessly  upset.  The  police  force,  which  in 
my  boyhood  consisted  of  a man  and  a half  — that 
is,  one  with  a wooden  leg  — was  increased  and 
uniformed,  and  the  night  watchmen’s  chant  was 
stopped.  But  there  are  limits  to  everything.  The 
town  that  had  been  waked  every  hour  of  the  night 
since  the  early  Middle  Ages  to  be  told  that  it  slept 
soundly,  could  not  possibly  take  a night’s  rest  with- 
out it.  It  lay  awake  dreading  all  sorts  of  unknown 
disasters.  Universal  insomnia  threatened  it;  and 
within  a month,  on  petition  of  the  entire  commu- 
nity, the  council  restored  the  songsters,  and  they 
squeak  to  this  day.  This  may  sound  like  exaggera- 
tion ; but  it  is  not.  It  is  a faithful  record  of  what 
took  place  and  stands  so  upon  the  official  minutes 
of  the  municipality. 

When  I was  in  Denmark  last  year,  I looked  over 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


15 


some  of  those  old  reports,  and  had  more  than  one 
melancholy  laugh  at  the  account  of  measures  taken 
for  the  defence  of  Ribe  at  the  first  assault  of  the 
Germans  in  1849.  That  was  the  year  I was  born. 
Ribe,  being  a border  town  on  the  line  of  the 
coveted  territory,  set  about  arming  itself  to  resist 
invasion.  The  citizens  built  barricades  in  the 


r 


The  Deserted  Quay. 


streets  — one  of  them,  with  wise  forethought,  in 
front,  of  the  drug  store,  “ in  case  any  one  were  to 
faint  ” and  stand  in  need  of  Hoffman’s  drops  or 
smelling-salts.  The  women  filled  kettles  with  hot 
water  in  the  houses  flanking  an  eventual  advance. 
“ Two  hundred  pounds  of  powder  ” were  ordered 
from  the  next  town  by  foot-post,  and  a cannon  that 
had  stood  half  buried  a hundred  years,  serving  for  a 
hitching-post,  was  dug  up  and  put  into  commission. 


i6 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


There  being  a scarcity  of  guns,  the  curate  of  the 
next  village  reported  arming  his  host  with  spears 
and  battle-axes  as  the  next  best  thing.  A rumor  of 
a sudden  advance  of  the  enemy  sent  the  mothers 
with  babes  in  arms  scurrying  north  for  safety.  My 
mother  was  among  them.  I was  a month  old 
at  the  time.  Thirty  years  later  I battled  for 
the  mastery  in  the  police  office  in  Mulberry 
Street  with  a reporter  for  the  Staats-Zeitmig  whom 
I discovered  to  be  one  of  those  invaders,  and  I 
took  it  out  of  him  in  revenge.  Old  Cohen  carried 
a Danish  bullet  in  his  arm  to  remind  him  of  his 
early  ill-doings.  But  it  was  not  fired  in  defence  of 
Ribe.  That  collapsed  when  a staff  officer  of  the 
government,  who  had  been  sent  out  to  report  upon 
the  zeal  of  the  Ribe  men,  declared  that  the  town 
could  be  defended  only  by  damming  the  river  and 
flooding  the  meadows,  which  would  cost  two  hun- 
dred daler.  The  minutes  of  the  council  represent 
that  that  was  held  to  be  too  great  a price  to  pay  for 
the  privilege  of  being  sacked,  perhaps,  as  a cap- 
tured town ; and  the  citizen  army  disbanded. 

If  the  coming  of  the  invading  army  could  have 
been  timed  to  suit,  the  sea,  which  from  old  was  the 
bulwark  of  the  nation,  might  have  completed  the 
defences  of  Ribe  without  other  expense  to  it  than 
that  of  repairing  damages.  Two  or  three  times  a 
year,  usually  in  the  fall,  when  it  blew  long  and 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  17 

hard  from  the  northwest,  it  broke  in  over  the  low 
meadows  and  flooded  the  country  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach.  Then  the  high  causeways  were  the 
refuge  of  everything  that  lived  in  the  fields ; hares, 
mice,  foxes,  and  partridges  huddled  there,  shivering 
in  the  shower  of  spray  that  shot  over  the  road,  and 
making  such  stand  as  they  could  against  the  fierce 


blast.  If  the  “ storm  flood  ” came  early  in  the  sea- 
son, before  the  cattle  had  been  housed,  there  was  a 
worse  story  to  tell.  Then  the  town  butcher  went 
upon  the  causeway  at  daybreak  with  the  implements 
of  his  trade  to  save  if  possible,  by  letting  the  blood, 
at  least  the  meat  of  drowned  cattle  and  sheep  that 
were  cast  up  by  the  sea.  When  it  rose  higher  and 
washed  over  the  road,  the  mail-coach  picked  its  way 


i8 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


warily  between  white  posts  set  on  both  sides  to 
guide  it  safe.  We  boys  caught  fish  in  the  streets 
of  the  town,  while  red  tiles  flew  from  the  roofs  all 
about  us,  and  we  enjoyed  ourselves  hugely.  It  was 
part  of  the  duty  of  the  watchmen  who  cried  the 
hours  to  give  warning  if  the  sea  came  in  suddenly 
during  the  night.  And  when  we  heard  it  we 
shivered  in  our  beds  with  gruesome  delight. 

The  people  of  Ribe  were  of  three  classes : the 
ofiicials,  the  tradesmen,  and  the  working  people. 
The  bishop,  the  burgomaster,  and  the  rector  of  the 
Latin  School  headed  the  first  class,  to  which  my 
father  belonged  as  the  senior  master  in  the  school. 
Elizabeth’s  father  easily  led  the  second  class.  For 
the  third,  it  had  no  leaders  and  nothing  to  say  at 
that  time.  On  state  occasions  lines  were  quite 
sharply  drawn  between  the  classes,  but  the  general 
kindliness  of  the  people  caused  them  at  ordinary 
times  to  be  so  relaxed  that  the  difference  was 
hardly  to  be  noticed.  Theirs  was  a real  neigh- 
borliness that  roamed  unrestrained  and  without 
prejudice  until  brought  up  with  a round  turn  at 
the  barrier  of  traditional  orthodoxy.  I remember 
well  one  instance  of  that  kind.  There  lived  in  our 
town  a single  family  of  Jews,  well-to-do  trades- 
people, gentle  and  good,  and  socially  popular.  There 
lived  also  a Gentile  woman  of  wealth,  a mother  in 
the  strictly  Lutheran  Israel,  who  fed  and  clothed 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


19 


the  poor  and  did  no  end  of  good.  She  was  a very 
pious  woman.  It  so  happened  that  the  Jewess  and 
the  Christian  were  old  friends.  But  one  day  they 
strayed  upon  dangerous  ground.  The  Jewess  saw 
it  and  tried  to  turn  the  conversation  from  the 
forbidden  topic. 

“Well,  dear  friend,”  she  said,  soothingly,  “some 
day,  when  we  meet  in  heaven,  we  shall  all  know 
better.” 

The  barrier  was  reached.  Her  friend  fairly 
bristled  as  she  made  reply: 

“What!  Our  heaven.^  No,  indeed  I We  may 

be  good  friends  here,  Mrs , but  there  — really, 

you  will  have  to  excuse  me.” 

Narrow  streams  are  apt  to  run  deep.  An  inci- 
dent which  I set  down  in  justice  to  the  uncom- 
promising orthodoxy  of  that  day,  made  a strong 
impression  on  me.  The  two  concerned  in  it  were 
my  uncle,  a generous,  bright,  even  a brilliant  man, 
but  with  no  great  bump  of  reverence,  and  the  deacon 
in  the  village  church  where  they  lived.  He  was 
the  exact  opposite  of  my  uncle  : hard,  unlovely,  but 
deeply  religious.  The  two  were  neighbors  and 
quarrelled  about  their  fence-line.  For  months  they 
did  not  speak.  On  Sunday  the  deacon  strode  by 
on  his  way  to  church,  and  my  uncle,  who  stayed 
home,  improved  the  opportunity  to  point  out  of 
what  stuff  those  Pharisees  were  made,  much  to 


20 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


A Cobblestone-paved  Alley. 

his  own  edification.  Easter  week  came.  In  Den- 
mark it  is,  or  was,  custom  to  go  to  communion 
once  a year,  on  Holy  Thursday,  if  at  no  other  sea- 
son,  and,  I might  add,  rarely  at  any  other.  On 
Wednesday  night,  the  deacon  appeared,  unbidden, 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


21 


at  my  uncle’s  door,  craving  an  interview.  If  a 
spectre  had  suddenly  walked  in,  I do  not  suppose 
he  could  have  lost  his  wits  more  completely.  He 
recovered  them  with  an  effort,  and  bidding  his 
guest  welcome,  led  him  courteously  to  his  office. 

From  that  interview  he  came  forth  a changed 
man.  Long  years  after  I heard  the  full  story  of 
it  from  my  uncle’s  own  lips.  It  was  simple  enough. 
The  deacon  said  that  duty  called  him  to  the  com- 
munion table  on  the  morrow,  and  that  he  could  not 
reconcile  it  with  his  conscience  to  go  with  hate 
toward  his  neighbor  in  his  heart.  Hence  he  had 
come  to  tell  him  that  he  might  have  the  line  as 
he  claimed  it.  The  spark  struck  fire.  Then  and 
there  they  made  up  and  were  warm  friends,  though 
agreeing  in  nothing,  till  they  died.  “ The  faith,” 
said  my  uncle  in  telling  of  it,  “ that  could  work  in 
that  way  upon  such  a nature,  is  not  to  be  made 
light  of.”  And  he  never  did  after  that.  He  died 
a believing  man. 

It  may  be  that  it  contributed  something  to  the 
ordinarily  democratic  relations  of  the  upper-class 
men  and  the  tradespeople  that  the  latter  were 
generally  well-to-do,  while  the  officials  mostly  had 
a running  fight  of  it  with  their  incomes.  My 
father’s  salary  had  to  reach  around  to  a family  of 
fourteen,  nay,  fifteen,  for  he  took  his  dead  sister’s 
child  when  a baby  and  brought  her  up  with  us,  who 


22 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


were  boys  all  but  one.  Father  had  charge  of 
the  Latin  form,  and  this,  with  a sense  of  grim 
humor,  caused  him,  I suppose,  to  check  his  children 
off  with  the  Latin  numerals,  as  it  were.  The  sixth 
was  baptized  Sextus,  the  ninth  Nonus,  though  they 
were  not  called  so,  and  he  was  dissuaded  from 
calling  the  twelfth  Duodecimus  only  by  the  cer- 
tainty that  the  other  boys  would  miscall  him  “ Dozen.” 
How  I escaped  Tertius  I don’t  know.  Probably 
the  scheme  had  not  been  thought  of  then.  Poor 
father!  Of  the  whole  fourteen  but  one  lived  to 
realize  his  hopes  of  a professional  career,  only  to 
die  when  he  had  just  graduated  from  the  medical 
school.  My  oldest  brother  went  to  sea;  Sophus, 
the  doctor,  was  the  next ; and  I,  when  it  came  my 
time  to  study  in  earnest,  refused  flatly  and  declared 
my  wish  to  learn  the  carpenter’s  trade.  Not  till 
thirty  years  after  did  I know  how  deep  the  wound 
was  I struck  my  father  then.  He  had  set  his  heart 
upon  my  making  a literary  career,  and  though  he 
was  very  far  from  lacking  sympathy  with  the  work- 
ingman — I rather  think  that  he  was  the  one  link 
between  the  upper  and  lower  strata  in  our  town  in 
that  way,  enjoying  the  most  hearty  respect  of  both 
— yet  it  was  a sad  disappointment  to  him.  It  was 
in  1893,  when  I saw  him  for  the  last  time,  that  I 
found  it  out,  by  a chance  remark  he  dropped  when 
sitting  with  my  first  book,  “ How  the  Other  Half 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


23 


Lives,”  in  his  hand,  and  also  the  sacrifice  he  had 
made  of  his  own  literary  ambitions  to  eke  out  by 
hack  editorial  work  on  the  local  newspaper  a living 
for  his  large  family.  As  for  me,  I would  have  been 
repaid  for  the  labor  of  writing  a thousand  books  by 
witnessing  the  pride 
he  took  in  mine. 

There  was  at  last  a 
man  of  letters  in  the 
family,  though  he 
came  by  a road  not 
down  on  the  official 
map. 

Crying  over  spilt 
milk  was  not  my 
father’s  fashion,  how- 
ever. If  I was  to  be  a 
carpenter,  there  was 
a good  one  in  town, 
to  whom  I was  forth- 
with apprenticed  for  Father. 

a year.  During  that  time,  incidentally,  I might 
make  up  my  mind,  upon  the  evidence  of  my  re- 
duced standing,  that  school  was,  after  all,  to  be 
preferred.  And  thus  it  was  that  I came  to  be  a 
working  boy  helping  build  her  proud  father’s  factory 
at  the  time  I fell  head  over  heels  in  love  with  sweet 
Elizabeth.  Certainly  I had  taken  no  easy  road  to 


24 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  winning  of  my  way  and  my  bride ; so  reasoned 
the  town,  which  presently  took  note  of  my  infatua- 
tion. But,  then,  it  laughed,  there  was  time  enough. 
1 was  fifteen  and  she  was  not  thirteen.  There  was 
time  enough,  oh,  yes!  Only  I did  not  think  so. 
My  courtship  proceeded  at  a tumultuous  pace, 
which  first  made  the  town  laugh,  then  put  it  out  of 
patience  and  made  some  staid  matrons  express  the 
desire  to  box  my  ears  soundly.  It  must  be  owned 
that  if  courting  were  generally  done  on  the  plan  I 
adopted,  there  would  be  little  peace  and  less  safety 
all  around.  When  she  came  playing  among  the 
lumber  where  we  were  working,  as  she  naturally 
would,  danger  dogged  my  steps.  I carry  a scar  on 
the  shin-bone  made  with  an  adze  I should  have  been 
minding  when  I was  looking  after  her.  The  fore- 
finger on  my  left  hand  has  a stiff  joint.  I cut  that 
off  with  an  axe  when  she  was  dancing  on  a beam 
close  by.  Though  it  was  put  on  again  by  a clever 
surgeon  and  kept  on,  I have  never  had  the  use  of  it 
since.  But  what  did  a finger  matter,  or  ten,  when 
she  was  only  there ! Once  I fell  off  the  roof  when 
I must  crane  my  neck  to  see  her  go  around  the 
corner.  But  I hardly  took  note  of  those  things, 
except  to  enlist  her  sympathy  by  posing  as  a 
wounded  hero  with  my  arm  in  a sling  at  the 
dancing-school  which  I had  joined  on  purpose  to 
dance  with  her.  I was  the  biggest  boy  there,  and 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


25 


therefore  first  to  choose  a partner,  and  I remember 
even  now  the  snickering  of  the  school  when  I went 
right  over  and  took  Elizabeth.  She  flushed  angrily, 
but  I didn’t  care.  That  was  what  I was  there  for, 
and  I had  her  now.  I didn’t  let  her  go  again, 
either,  though  the  teacher  delicately  hinted  that 
we  were  not  a good  match.  She  was  the  best 
dancer  in  the  school,  and  I was  the  worst.  Not  a 
good  match,  hey ! That  was  as  much  as  she  knew 
about  it. 

It  was  at  the  ball  that  closed  the  dancing-school 
that  I excited  the  strong  desire  of  the  matrons  to 
box  my  ears  by  ordering  Elizabeth’s  father  off  the 
floor  when  he  tried  to  join  in  before  midnight,  the 
time  set  for  the  elders  to  take  charge.  I was  floor 
committee,  but  how  I could  do  such  a thing  passes 
my  understanding,  except  on  the  principle  laid  down 
by  Mr.  Dooley  that  when  a man  is  in  love  he  is 
looking  for  fight  all  around.  I must  have  been,  for 
they  had  to  hold  me  back  by  main  strength  from 
running  away  to  the  army  that  was  fighting  a losing 
fight  with  two  Great  Powers  that  winter.  Though 
I was  far  under  age,  I was  a big  boy,  and  might 
have  passed  ; but  the  hasty  retreat  of  our  brave  little 
band  before  overwhelming  odds  settled  it.  With 
the  echoes  of  the  scandal  caused  by  the  ball  episode 
still  ringing,  I went  off  to  Copenhagen  to  serve  out 
my  apprenticeship  there  with  a great  builder  whose 


26 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


name  I saw  among  the  dead  in  the  paper  only  the 
other  day.  He  was  ever  a good  friend  to  me. 

The  third  day  after  I reached  the  capital,  which 
happened  to  be  my  birthday,  I had  appointed  a 
meeting  with  my  student  brother  at  the  art  exhibi- 
tion in  the  palace  of  Charlottenborg.  I found  two 


My  Childhood’s  Home. 


stairways  running  up  from  the  main  entrance,  and 
was  debating  in  my  mind  which  to  take,  when  a 
handsome  gentleman  in  a blue  overcoat  asked,  with 
a slight  foreign  accent,  if  he  could  help  me.  I told 
him  my  trouble,  and  we  went  up  together. 

We  walked  slowly  and  carried  on  quite  an  ani- 
mated conversation ; that  is  to  say,  I did.  His  part 
of  it  was  confined  mostly  to  questions,  which  I was 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


27 


no  way  loth  to  answer.  I told  him  about  myself 
and  my  plans;  about  the  old  school,  and  about  my 
father,  whom  I took  it  for  granted  he  knew ; for  was 
he  not  the  oldest  teacher  in  the  school,  and  the  wis- 
est, as  all  Ribe  could  testify  He  listened  to  it  all 
with  a curious  little  smile,  and  nodded  in  a very 
pleasant  and  sympathetic  way  which  I liked  to  see. 
I told  him  so,  and  that  I liked  the  people  of  Copen- 
hagen well ; they  seemed  so  kind  to  a stranger,  and 
he  put  his  hand  on  my  arm  and  patted  it  in  a 
friendly  manner  that  was  altogether  nice.  So  we 
arrived  together  at  the  door  where  the  red  lackey 
stood. 

He  bowed  very  deep  as  we  entered,  and  I bowed 
back,  and  told  my  friend  that  there  was  an  example 
of  it ; for  I had  never  seen  the  man  before.  At 
which  he  laughed  outright,  and,  pointing  to  a door, 
said  I would  find  my  brother  in  there,  and  bade  me 
good-by.  He  was  gone  before  I could  shake  hands 
with  him;  but  just  then  my  brother  came  up,  and  I 
forgot  about  him  in  my  admiration  of  the  pictures. 

We  were  resting  in  one  of  the  rooms  an  hour 
later,  and  I was  going  over  the  events  of  the  day, 
telling  all  about  the  kind  stranger,  when  in  he  came, 
and  nodded,  smiling  at  me. 

“There  he  is,”  I cried,  and  nodded  too.  To  my 
surprise,  Sophus  got  up  with  a start  and  salaamed 
in  haste. 


28 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


“ Good  gracious  ! ” he  said,  when  the  stranger  was 
gone.  “ You  don’t  mean  to  say  he  was  your  guide 
Why,  that  was  the  King,  boy ! ” 

I was  never  so  astonished  in  my  life  and  expect 
never  to  be  again.  I had  only  known  kings  from 
Hans  Christian  Andersen’s  story  books,  where  they 
always  went  in  coronation  robes,  with  long  train 
and  pages,  and  with  gold  crowns  on  their  heads. 
That  a king  could  go  around  in  a blue  overcoat,  like 
any  other  man,  was  a real  shock  to  me  that  I didn’t 
get  over  for  a while.  But  when  I got  to  know  more 
of  King  Christian,  I liked  him  all  the  better  for 
it.  You  couldn’t  help  that  anyhow.  His  people 
call  him  “ the  good  king  ” with  cause.  He  is  that. 

Speaking  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen,  we  boys 
loved  him  as  a matter  of  course ; for  had  he  not 
told  us  all  the  beautiful  stories  that  made  the  whole 
background  of  our  lives?  They  do  that  yet  with 
me,  more  than  you  would  think.  The  little  Christ- 
mas tree  and  the  hare  that  made  it  weep  by  jumping 
over  it  because  it  was  so  small,  belong  to  the  things 
that  come  to  stay  with  you  always.  I hear  of  people 
nowadays  who  think  it  is  not  proper  to  tell  children 
fairy-stories.  I am  sorry  for  those  children.  I wonder 
what  they  will  give  them  instead.  Algebra,  perhaps. 
Nice  lot  of  counting  machines  we  shall  have  running 
the  century  that  is  to  come ! But  though  we  loved 
Andersen,  we  were  not  above  playing  our  pranks 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


29 


upon  him  when  occasion  offered.  In  those  days 
Copenhagen  was  girt  about  with  great  earthen 
walls,  and  there  were  beautiful  walks  up  there 
under  the  old  lindens.  On  moonlight  nights  when 
the  smell  of  violets  was  in  the  air,  we  would  some- 
times meet  the  poet  there,  walking  alone.  Then 
we  would  string  out  irreverently  in  Indian  file 
and  walk  up,  cap  in  hand,  one  after  another,  to  sa- 
lute him  with  a deeply  respectful  “ Good  evening, 
Herr  Professor!”  That  was  his  title.  His  kind 
face  would  beam  with  delight,  and  our  proffered 
fists  would  be  buried  in  the  very  biggest  hand,  it 
seemed  to  us,  that  mortal  ever  owned,  • — Andersen 
had  very  large  hands  and  feet,  — and  we  would  go 
away  gleefully  chuckling  and  withal  secretly  ashamed 
of  ourselves.  He  was  in  such  evident  delight  at 
our  homage. 

They  used  to  tell  a story  of  Andersen  at  the  time 
that  made  the  whole  town  laugh  in  its  sleeve,  though 
there  was  not  a bit  of  malice  in  it.  No  one  had 
anything  but  the  sincerest  affection  for  the  poet  in 
my  day ; his  storm  and  stress  period  was  then  long 
past.  He  was,  it  was  said,  greatly  afraid  of  being 
buried  alive.  So  that  it  might  not  happen,  he  care- 
fully pinned  a paper  to  his  blanket  every  night 
before  he  went  to  sleep,  on  which  was  written : “ I 
guess  I am  only  in  a trance.”^  Needless  to  say, 

^ In  Danish  : Jeg  er  vist  skindod.'” 


30 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


he  was  in  no  danger.  When  he  fell  into  his  long 
sleep,  the  whole  country,  for  that  matter  the  whole 
world,  stood  weeping  at  his  bier. 

Four  years  I dreamt  away  in  Copenhagen  while 
I learned  my  trade.  The  intervals  when  I was 
awake  were  when  she  came  to  the  town  on  a visit 
with  her  father,  or,  later,  to  finish  her  education 
at  a fashionable  school.  I mind  the  first  time  she 
came.  I was  at  the  depot,  and  I rode  with  her  on 
the  back  of  their  coach,  unknown  to  them.  So 
I found  out  what  hotel  they  were  to  stay  at.  I 
called  the  next  day,  and  purposely  forgot  my 
gloves.  Heaven  knows  where  I got  them  from  — 
probably  borrowed  them.  Those  were  not  days  for 
gloves.  Her  father  sent  them  to  my  address  the 
next  day  with  a broad  hint  that,  having  been  neigh- 
borly, I needn’t  call  again.  He  was  getting  square 
for  the  ball.  But  my  wife  says  that  I was  never 
good  at  taking  a hint,  except  in  the  way  of  business, 
as  a reporter.  I kept  the  run  of  her  all  the  time 
she  was  in  the  city.  She  did  not  always  see  me, 
but  I saw  her,  and  that  was  enough.  I watched 
her  home  from  school  in  the  evening,  and  was 
content,  though  she  was  escorted  by  a cadet  with 
a pig-sticker  at  his  side.  He  was  her  cousin,  and 
had  given  me  his  word  that  he  cared  nothing  about 
her.  He  is  a commodore  and  King  Christian’s 
Secretary  of  Navy  now.  When  she  was  sick,  I 


Down  by  her  Garden,  on  the  River  Nibs. 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


31 


pledged  my  Sunday  trousers  for  a dollar  and  bought 
her  a bouquet  of  flowers  which  they  teased  her  about 
until  she  cried  and  threw  it  away.  And  all  the  time 
she  was  getting  more  beautiful  and  more  lovable. 
She  was  certainly  the  handsomest  girl  in  Copen- 
hagen, which  is  full  of  charming  women. 

There  were  long  spells  when  she  was  away,  and 
when  I dreamt  on  undisturbed.  It  was  during  one 
of  these  that  I went  to  the  theatre  with  my  brother 
to  see  a famous  play  in  which  an  assassin  tried  to 
murder  the  heroine,  who  was  asleep  in  an  arm- 
chair. Now,  this  heroine  was  a well-known  actress 
who  looked  singularly  like  Elizabeth.  As  she  sat 
there  with  the  long  curls  sweeping  her  graceful 
neck,  in  imminent  danger  of  being  killed,  I forgot 
where  I was,  what  it  was,  all  and  everything  except 
that  danger  threatened  Elizabeth,  and  sprang  to  my 
feet  with  a loud  cry  of  murder,  trying  to  make  for 
the  stage.  My  brother  struggled  to  hold  me  back. 
There  was  a sensation  in  the  theatre,  and  the  play 
was  held  up  while  they  put  me  out.  I remember 
King  George  of  Greece  eying  me  from  his  box  as  I 
was  being  transported  to  the  door,  and  the  rascal 
murderer  on  the  stage  looking  as  if  he  had  done 
something  deserving  of  praise.  Outside,  in  the 
cold,  my  brother  shook  me  up  and  took  me  home, 
a sobered  and  somewhat  crestfallen  lad.  But,  any- 
how, I don’t  like  that  kind  of  play.  I don’t  see  why 


32 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  villain  on  the  stage  is  any  better  than  the  vil- 
lain on  the  street.  There  are  enough  of  them  and 
to  spare.  And  think  if  he  had  killed  her ! 

The  years  passed,  and  the  day  came  at  last  when, 
having  proved  my  fitness,  I received  my  certificate 
as  a duly  enrolled  carpenter  of  the  guild  of  Copen- 
hagen, and,  dropping  my  tools  joyfully  and  in 
haste,  made  a bee-line  for  Ribe,  where  she  was. 
I thought  that  I had  moved  with  very  stealthy 
steps  toward  my  goal,  having  grown  four  years 
older  than  at  the  time  I set  the  whole  community 
by  the  ears.  But  it  could  not  have  been  so,  for  I 
had  not  been  twenty-four  hours  in  town  before  it  was 
all  over  that  I had  come  home  to  propose  to  Eliza- 
beth ; which  was  annoying  but  true.  By  the  same 
sort  of  sorcery  the  town  knew  in  another  day  that 
she  had  refused  me,  and  all  the  wise  heads  wagged 
and  bore  witness  that  they  could  have  told  me  so. 
What  did  I,  a common  carpenter,  want  at  the 
“ castle  ” } That  was  what  they  called  her  father’s 
house.  He  had  other  plans  for  his  pretty  daughter. 

As  for  Elizabeth,  poor  child ! she  was  not  yet 
seventeen,  and  was  easily  persuaded  that  it  was  all 
wrong ; she  wept,  and  in  the  goodness  of  her  gentle 
heart  was  truly  sorry ; and  I kissed  her  hands  and 
went  out,  my  eyes  brimming  over  with  tears,  feeling 
that  there  was  nothing  in  all  the  wide  world  for  me 
any  more,  and  that  the  farther  I went  from  her 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  33 

the  better.  So  it  was  settled  that  I should  go  to 
America.  Her  mother  gave  me  a picture  of  her 
and  a lock  of  her  hair,  and  thereby  roused  the  wrath 
of  the  dowagers  once  more;  for  why  should  I 
be  breaking  my 
heart  over  Eliza- 
beth in  foreign 
parts,  since  she 
was  not  for  me  ? 

Ah,  but  mothers 
know  better ! I 
lived  on  that  pic- 
ture and  that  curl 
six  long  years. 

One  May  morn- 
ing my  own  mother 
went  to  the  stage- 
coach with  me  to 
see  me  - off  on  my 
long  journey.  Father  stayed  home.  He  was  ever 
a man  who,  with  the  tenderest  of  hearts,  put  on  an 
appearance  of  great  sternness  lest  he  betray  it. 
God  rest  his  soul ! That  nothing  that  I have  done 
caused  him  greater  grief  in  his  life  than  the  separa- 
tion that  day  is  sweet  comfort  to  me  now.  He 
lived  to  take  Elizabeth  to  his  heart,  a beloved 
daughter.  For  me,  I had  been  that  morning,  long 
before  the  sun  rose,  under  her  window  to  bid  her 


D 


34 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


good-by,  but  she  did  not  know  it.  The  servants 
did,  though,  and  told  her  of  it  when  she  got  up. 
And  she,  girl-like,  said,  “ Well,  I didn’t  ask  him  to 
come ; ” but  in  her  secret  soul  I think  there  was  a 
small  regret  that  she  did  not  see  me  go. 

So  I went  out  in  the  world  to  seek  my  fortune, 
the  richer  for  some  $40  which  Ribe  friends 
had  presented  to  me,  knowing  that  I had  barely 
enough  to  pay  my  passage  over  in  the  steerage. 
Though  I had  aggravated  them  in  a hundred  ways 
and  wholly  disturbed  the  peace  of  the  old  town,  I 
think  they  liked  me  a little,  anyway.  They  were 
always  good,  kind  neighbors,  honest  and  lovable 
folk.  I looked  back  with  my  mother’s  blessing  yet 
in  my  ears,  to  where  the  gilt  weather-vanes  glis- 
tened on  her  father’s  house,  and  the  tears  brimmed 
over  again.  And  yet,  such  is  life,  presently  I felt 
my  heart  bound  with  a new  courage.  All  was  not 
lost  yet.  The  world  was  before  me.  But  yester- 
day the  chance  befell  that,  in  going  to  communion 
in  the  old  Domkirke,  I knelt  beside  her  at  the  altar 
rail.  I thought  of  that  and  dried  my  eyes.  God 
is  good.  He  did  not  lay  it  up  against  me.  When 
next  we  met  there,  we  knelt  to  be  made  man  and 
wife,  for  better  or  worse  ; blessedly,  gloriously  for 
better,  forever  and  aye,  and  all  our  troubles  were 
over.  For  had  we  not  one  another 


CHAPTER  II 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK  AND  TAKE  A HAND  IN  THE 

GAME 

The  steamer  Iowa,  from  Glasgow,  made  port, 
after  a long  and  stormy  voyage,  on  Whitsunday, 
1870.  She  had  come  up  during  the  night,  and  cast 
anchor  off  Castle  Garden.  It  was  a beautiful 
spring  morning,  and  as  I looked  over  the  rail  at 
the  miles  of  straight  streets,  the  green  heights  of 
Brooklyn,  and  the  stir  of  ferryboats  and  pleasure 
craft  on  the  river,  my  hopes  rose  high  that  some- 
where in  this  teeming  hive  there  would  be  a place 
for  me.  What  kind  of  a place  I had  myself  no  clear 
notion  of.  I would  let  that  work  out  as  it  could.  Of 
course  I had  my  trade  to  fall  back  on.  but  I am  afraid 
that  is  all  the  use  I thought  of  putting  it  to.  The  love 
of  change  belongs  to  youth,  and  I meant  to  take  a hand 
in  things  as  they  came  along.  I had  a pair  of  strong 
hands,  and  stubbornness  enough  to  do  for  two  ; 
also  a strong  belief  that  in  a free  country,  free  from 
the  dominion  of  custom,  of  caste,  as  well  as  of  men, 
things  would  somehow  come  right  in  the  end, 
and  a man  get  shaken  into  the  corner  where  he 


35 


36  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

belonged  if  he  took  a hand  in  the  game.  I think  I 
was  right  in  that.  If  it  took  a lot  of  shaking  to 
get  me  where  I belonged,  that  was  just  what  I 
needed.  Even  my  mother  admits  that  now.  To 
tell  the  truth,  I was  tired  of  hammer  and  saw. 
They  were  indissolubly  bound  up  with  my  dreams 
of  Elizabeth  that  were  now  gone  to  smash.  There- 
fore I hated  them.  And  straightway,  remembering 
that  the  day  was  her  birthday,  and  accepting  the 
fact  as  a good  omen,  I rebuilt  my  air-castles  and 
resolved  to  try  on  a new  tack.  So  irrational  is 
human  nature  at  twenty-one,  when  in  love.  And 
isn’t  it  good  that  it  is  ? 

In  all  of  which  I have  made  no  account  of  a 
factor  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  half  our  troubles 
with  our  immigrant  population,  so  far  as  they  are 
not  of  our  own  making:  the  loss  of  reckoning  that 
follows  uprooting;  the  cutting  loose  from  all  sense 
of  responsibility,  with  the  old  standards  gone,  that 
makes  the  politician’s  job  so  profitable  in  our  large 
cities,  and  that  of  the  patriot  and  the  housekeeper 
so  wearisome.  We  all  know  the  process.  The 
immigrant  has  no  patent  on  it.  It  afflicts  the 
native,  too,  when  he  goes  to  a town  where  he  is  not 
known.  In  the  slum  it  reaches  its  climax  in  the  sec- 
ond generation,  and  makes  of  the  Irishman’s  and  the 
Italian’s  boys  the  “ toughs  ” who  fight  the  battles 
of  Hell’s  Kitchen  and  Frog  Hollow.  It  simply 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


37 


means  that  we  are  creatures  of  environment,  that  a 
man  everywhere  is  largely  what  his  neighbors  and 
his  children  think  him  to  be,  and  that  government 
makes  for  our  moral  good  too,  dreamers  and 
anarchists  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  But, 
simple  as  it  is,  it  has  been  too  long  neglected  for 
the  safety  of  the  man  and  of  the  State.  I am  not 
going  to  discuss  here  plans  for  mending  this 
neglect,  but  I can  think  of  three  that  would  work ; 
one  of  them  does  work,  if  not  up  to  the  top  notch 

— the  public  school.  In  its  ultimate  development 
as  the  neighborhood  centre  of  things,  I would  have 
that  the  first  care  of  city  government,  always  and 
everywhere,  at  whatever  expense.  An  efficient 
parish  districting  is  another.  I think  we  are  com- 
ing to  that.  The  last  is  a rigid  annual  enrolment 

— the  school  census  is  good,  but  not  good  enough 

— for  vaccination  purposes,  jury  duty,  for  military 
purposes  if  you  please.  I do  not  mean  for  conscrip- 
tion, but  for  the  ascertainment  of  the  fighting 
strength  of  the  State  in  case  of  need  — for  any- 
thing that  would  serve  as  an  excuse.  It  is  the  en- 
rolment itself  that  I think  would  have  a good  effect 
in  making  the  man  feel  that  he  is  counted  on  for 
something;  that  he  belongs  as  it  were,  instead  of 
standing  idle  and  watching  a procession  go  by,  in 
which  there  is  no  place  for  him ; which  is  only 
another  way  of  saying  that  it  is  his  right  to  harass 


38  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

it  and  levy  tribute  as  he  can.  The  enrolment  for 
voting  comes  too  late.  By  that  time  he  may  have 
pined  the  looters’  army. 

So  as  properly  to  take  my  own  place  in  the  pro- 
cession, if  not  in  the  army  referred  to,  as  I con- 
ceived the  custom  of  the  country  to  be,  I made  it 
my  first  business  to  buy  a navy  revolver  of  the 
largest  size,  investing  in  the  purchase  exactly  one- 
half  of  my  capital.  I strapped  the  weapon  on  the 
outside  of  my  coat  and  strode  up  Broadway,  con- 
scious that  I was  following  the  fashion  of  the 
country.  I knew  it  upon  the  authority  of  a man 
who  had  been  there  before  me  and  had  returned,  a 
gold  digger  in  the  early  days  of  California;  but 
America  was  America  to  us.  We  knew  no  dis- 
tinction of  West  and  East.  By  rights  there  ought 
to  have  been  buffaloes  and  red  Indians  charging 
up  and  down  Broadway.  I am  sorry  to  say  that 
it  is  easier  even  to-day  to  make  lots  of  people  over 
there  believe  that,  than  that  New  York  is  paved, 
and  lighted  with  electric  lights,  and  quite  as  civil- 
ized as  Copenhagen.  They  will  have  it  that  it  is 
in  the  wilds.  I saw  none  of  the  signs  of  this,  but 
I encountered  a friendly  policeman,  who,  sizing 
me  and  my  pistol  up,  tapped  it  gently  with  his  club 
and  advised  me  to  leave  it  home,  or  I might  get 
robbed  of  it.  This,  at  first  blush,  seemed  to  con- 
firm my  apprehensions;  but  he  was  a very  nice 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


39 


policeman,  and  took  time  to  explain,  seeing  that 
I was  very  green.  And  I took  his  advice  and  put 
the  revolver  away,  secretly  relieved  to  get  rid  of  it. 
It  was  quite  heavy  to  carry  around. 

I had  letters  to  the  Danish  Consul  and  to  the 
President  of  the  American  Banknote  Company, 
Mr.  Goodall.  I think  perhaps  he  was  not  then  the 
president,  but  became  so  afterward.  Mr.  Goodall 
had  once  been  wrecked  on  the  Danish  coast  and 
rescued  by  the  captain  of  the  lifesaving  crew,  a 
friend  of  my  family.  But  they  were  both  in 
Europe,  and  in  just  four  days  I realized  that  there 
was  no  special  public  clamor  for  my  services  in 
New  York,  and  decided  to  go  West.  A mis- 
sionary in  Castle  Garden  was  getting  up  a gang 
of  men  for  the  Brady’s  Bend  Iron  Works  on  the 
Allegheny  River,  and  I went  along.  We  started 
a full  score,  with  tickets  paid,  but  only  two  of  us 
reached  the  Bend.  The  rest  calmly  deserted  in 
Pittsburg  and  went  their  own  way.  Now  here  was  an 
instance  of  what  I have  just  been  saying.  Not  one 
of  them,  probably,  would  have  thought  of  doing  it 
on  the  other  side.  They  would  have  carried  out 
their  contract  as  a matter  of  course.  Here  they 
broke  it  as  a matter  of  course,  the  minute  it  didn’t 
suit  them  to  go  on.  Two  of  them  had  been  on 
our  steamer,  and  the  thought  of  them  makes  me 
laugh  even  now.  One  was  a Dane  who  carried 


40 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


an  immense  knapsack  that  was  filled  with  sausages, 
cheese,  and  grub  of  all  kinds  when  he  came  aboard. 
He  never  let  go  of  it  for  a moment  on  the  voyage. 
In  storm  and  sunshine  he  was  there,  shouldering 
his  knapsack.  I think  he  slept  with  it.  When  I 
last  saw  him  hobbling  down  a side  street  in  Pitts- 
burg, he  carried  it  still,  but  one  end  of  it  hung  limp 
and  hungry,  and  the  other  was  as  lean  as  a bad 
year.  The  other  voyager  was  a jovial  Swede  whose 
sole  baggage  consisted  of  an  old  musket,  a black- 
thorn stick,  and  a barometer  glass,  tied  up  together. 
The  glass,  he  explained,  was  worth  keeping;  it 
might  some  day  make  an  elegant  ruler.  The 
fellow  was  a blacksmith,  and  I mistrust  that  he 
could  not  write. 

Adler  and  I went  on  to  Brady’s  Bend.  Adler 
was  a big,  explosive  German  who  had  been  a 
reserve  officer,  I think,  in  the  Prussian  army.  Fate 
had  linked  us  together  when  on  the  steamer  the  meat 
served  in  the  steerage  became  so  bad  as  to  offend 
not  only  our  palates,  but  our  sense  of  smell.  We  got 
up  a demonstration,  marching  to  see  the  captain  in 
a body,  Adler  and  I carrying  a tray  of  the  objec- 
tionable meat  between  us.  As  the  spokesman,  I 
presented  the  case  briefly  and  respectfully,  and  all 
would  have  gone  well  had  not  the  hot  blood  of 
Adler  risen  at  the  wrong  moment,  when  the  captain 
was  cautiously  exploring  the  scent  of  the  rejected 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


41 


food.  With  a sudden  upward  jerk  he  caused  that 
official’s  nose  to  disappear  momentarily  in  the  dish, 
while  he  exploded  in  voluble  German.  The  result 
was  an  instant  rupture  of  diplomatic  relations. 
Adler  was  put  in  the  lock-up,  but  set  free  again 
immediately.  He  spent  the  rest  of  the  voyage  in 
his  bunk  shouting  dire  threats  of  disaster  impend- 
ing from  the  “ Norddeutsche  Consul,”  once  he 


Brady’s  Bend  as  I knew  it. 


reached  New  York.  But  we  were  all  too  glad  to 
get  ashore  to  think  of  vengeance  then. 

Adler  found  work  at  the  blast-furnace,  while  I 
was  set  to  building  huts  for  the  miners  on  the  east 
bank  of  the  river  where  a clearing  had  been  made 
and  called  East  Brady.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
Allegheny  the  furnaces  and  rolling  mills  were  hid- 
den away  in  a narrow,  winding  valley  that  set  back 
into  the  forest-clad  hills,  growing  deeper  and  nar- 


42 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


rower  with  every  mile.  It  was  to  me,  who  had  been 
used  to  seeing  the  sun  rise  and  set  over  a level 
plain  where  the  winds  of  heaven  blew  as  they  listed, 
from  the  first  like  a prison.  I climbed  the  hills 
only  to  find  that  there  were  bigger  hills  beyond  — 
an  endless  sea  of  swelling  billows  of  green  with- 
out a clearing  in  it.  I spent  all  Sunday  roaming 
through  it,  miles  and  miles,  to  find  an  outlook  from 
which  I might  see  the  end  ; but  there  was  none.  A 
horrible  fit  of  homesickness  came  upon  me.  The 
days  I managed  to  get  through  by  working  hard 
and  making  observations  on  the  American  lan- 
guage. In  this  I had  a volunteer  assistant  in  Julia, 
the  pretty,  barefooted  daughter  of  a coal-miner,  who 
hung  around  and  took  an  interest  in  what  was 
going  on.  But  she  disappeared  after  I had  asked 
her  to  explain  what  setting  one’s  cap  for  any  one 
meant.  I was  curious  because  I had  heard  her 
mother  say  to  a neighbor  that  Julia  was  doing  that 
to  me.  But  the  evenings  were  very  lonesome. 
The  girl  in  our  boarding-house  washed  dishes 
always  to  one  tune,  “ The  Letter  that  Never  Came.” 
It  was  not  a cheerful  tune  and  not  a cheerful  sub- 
ject, for  I had  had  no  news  from  home  since  I left. 
I can  hear  her  yet,  shrieking  and  clattering  her 
dishes,  with  the  frogs  yelling  accompaniment  in 
the  creek  that  mumbled  in  the  valley.  I never 
could  abide  American  frogs  since.  There  is  rest 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


43 


in  the  ko-ax,  ko-ax ! of  its  European  brother,  but 
the  breathless  yi ! yi ! of  our  American  frogs  makes 
me  feel  always  as  if  I wanted  to  die  — which  I 
don’t. 

In  making  the  clearing,  I first  saw  an  American 
wood-cutter  swing  an  axe,  and  the  sight  filled  me 
with  admiration  for  the  man  and  the  axe  both.  It 
was  a “ double-bitter,”  and  he  a typical  long-armed 
and  long-limbed  backwoodsman.  I also  had  learned 
to  use  the  axe,  but  anything  like  the  way  he  swung 
it,  first  over  one,  then  over  the  other  shoulder,  mak- 
ing it  tell  in  long,  clean  cuts  at  every  blow,  I had 
never  dreamt  of.  It  was  splendid.  I wished  myself 
back  in  Copenhagen  just  long  enough  to  tell  the 
numskulls  there,  who  were  distrustful  of  American 
tools,  which  were  just  beginning  to  come  into  the 
market,  that  they  didn’t  know  what  they  were  talk- 
ing about.  Of  course  it  was  reasonable  that  the 
good  tools  should  come  from  the  country  where 
they  had  good  use  for  them. 

There  was  a settlement  of  honest  Welshmen  in 
the  back  hills,  and  the  rumor  that  a Dane  had  come 
into  the  valley  reached  it  in  due  course.  It  brought 
down  a company  of  four  sturdy  miners,  who  trudged 
five  miles  over  bad  land  of  a Sunday  to  see  what  I 
was  like.  The  Danes  who  live  in  Welsh  sono:  and 
story  must  have  been  grievous  giants,  for  they  were 
greatly  disgusted  at  sight  of  me,  and  spoke  their 


44 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


minds  about  it  without  reserve,  even  with  some 
severity,  as  if  I were  guilty  of  some  sort  of  an  impo- 
sition on  the  valley. 

It  could  hardly  have  been  this  introduction  that 
tempted  me  to  try  coal-mining.  I have  forgotten 
how  it  came  about  — probably  through  some  tem- 
porary slackness  in  the  building  trade ; but  I did 
try,  and  one  day  was  enough  for  me.  The  com- 
pany mined  its  own  coal.  Such  as  it  was,  it  cropped 
out  of  the  hills  right  and  left  in  narrow  veins,  some- 
times too  shallow  to  work,  seldom  affording  more 
space  to  the  digger  than  barely  enough  to  permit 
him  to  stand  upright.  You  did  not  go  down 
through  a shaft,  but  straight  in  through  the  side  of 
a hill  to  the  bowels  of  the  mountain,  following  a 
track  on  which  a little  donkey  drew  the  coal  to  the 
mouth  of  the  mine  and  sent  it  down  the  incline  to 
run  up  and  down  a hill  a mile  or  more  by  its  own 
gravity  before  it  reached  the  place  of  unloading. 
Through  one  of  these  we  marched  in,  Adler  and  I, 
one  summer  morning  with  new  pickaxes  on  our 
shoulders  and  nasty  little  oil  lamps  fixed  in  our 
hats  to  light  us  through  the  darkness  where  every 
second  we  stumbled  over  chunks  of  slate  rock,  or 
into  pools  of  water  that  oozed  through  from  above. 
An  old  miner  whose  way  lay  past  the  fork  in  the 
tunnel  where  our  lead  began  showed  us  how  to 
use  our  picks  and  the  timbers  to  brace  the  slate 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


45 


that  roofed  over  the  vein,  and  left  us  to  ourselves 
in  a chamber  perhaps  ten  feet  wide  and  the  height 
of  a man. 

We  were  to  be  paid  by  the  ton,  I forget  how 
much,  but  it  was  very  little,  and  we  lost  no  time 
getting  to  work.  We  had  to  dig  away  the  coal  at 
the  floor  with  our  picks,  lying  on  our  knees  to  do 
it,  and  afterward  drive  wedges  under  the  roof  to 
loosen  the  mass.  It  was  hard  work,  and,  entirely 
inexperienced  as  we  were,  we  made  but  little  head- 
way. As  the  day  wore  on,  the  darkness  and  silence 
grew  very  oppressive,  and  made  us  start  nervously 
at  the  least  thing.  The  sudden  arrival  of  our  don- 
key with  its  cart  gave  me  a dreadful  fright.  The 
friendly  beast  greeted  us  with  a joyous  bray  and 
rubbed  its  shaggy  sides  against  us  in  the  most  com- 
panionable way.  In  the  flickering  light  of  my  lamp 
I caught  sight  of  its  long  ears  waving  over  me  — 
I don’t  believe  I had  seen  three  donkeys  before  in 
my  life;  there  were  none  where  I came  from  — and 
heard  that  demoniac  shriek,  and  I verily  believe  I 
thought  the  evil  one  had  come  for  me  in  person.  I 
know  that  I nearly  fainted. 

That  donkey  was  a discerning  animal.  I think 
it  knew  when  it  first  set  eyes  on  us  that  we  were 
not  going  to  overwork  it ; and  we  didn’t.  When, 
toward  evening,  we  quit  work,  after  narrowly  escap- 
ing being  killed  by  a large  stone  that  fell  from  the 


46 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


roof  in  consequence  of  our  neglect  to  brace  it  up 
properly,  our  united  efforts  had  resulted  in  barely 
filling  two  of  the  little  carts,  and  we  had  earned,  if 
I recollect  aright,  something  like  sixty  cents  each. 
The  fall  of  the  roof  robbed  us  of  all  desire  to  try 
mining  again.  It  knocked  the  lamps  from  our  hats, 
and,  in  darkness  that  could  almost  be  felt,  we 
groped  our  way  back  to  the  light  along  the  track, 
getting  more  badly  frightened  as  we  went.  The 
last  stretch  of  way  we  ran,  holding  each  other’s 
hands  as  though  we  were  not  men  and  miners,  but 
two  frightened  children  in  the  dark. 

As  we  emerged  from  the  damp  gap  in  the  moun- 
tain side,  the  sunset  was  upon  the  hills.  Peaceful 
sounds  came  up  from  the  valley  where  the  shadows 
lay  deep.  Gangs  of  men  were  going  home  from 
the  day’s  toil  to  their  evening  rest  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I had  been  dead  and  had  come  back  to 
life.  The  world  was  never  so  wondrous  fair.  My 
companion  stood  looking  out  over  the  landscape 
with  hungry  eyes.  Neither  of  us  spoke,  but  when 
the  last  gleam  had  died  out  in  the  window  of  the 
stone  church  we  went  straight  to  the  company’s 
store  and  gave  up  our  picks.  I have  never  set  foot 
in  a coal  mine  since,  and  have  not  the  least  desire 
to  do  so. 

I was  back  in  the  harness  of  the  carpenter-shop 
when,  in  the  middle  of  July,  the  news  struck  down 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


47 


in  our  quiet  community  like  a bombshell  that 
France  had  declared  war  on  Prussia;  also  that 
Denmark  was  expected  to  join  her  forces  to  those 
of  her  old  ally  and  take  revenge  for  the  great  rob- 
bery of  1864.  I dropped  my  tools  the  moment  I 
heard  it,  and  flew  rather  than  ran  to  the  company’s 
office  to  demand  my  time ; thence  to  our  boarding- 
house to  pack.  Adler  reasoned  and  entreated,  called 
it  an  insane  notion,  but,  when  he  saw  that  nothing 
would  stop  me,  lent  a hand  in  stuffing  my  trunk, 
praying  pathetically  between  pulls  that  his  country- 
men would  make  short  work  of  me,  as  they  certainly 
would  of  France.  I heeded  nothing.  All  the  hot 
blood  of  youth  was  surging  through  me.  I remem- 
bered the  defeat,  the  humiliation  of  the  flag  I loved, 
— aye  ! and  love  yet,  for  there  is  no  flag  like  the  flag 
of  my  fathers,  save  only  that  of  my  children  and  of 
my  manhood,  — and  I remembered,  too,  Elizabeth, 
with  a sudden  hope.  I would  be  near  her  then,  and 
I would  earn  fame  and  glory.  The  carpenter  would 
come  back  with  shoulder-straps.  Perhaps  then,  in 
the  castle  ...  I shouldered  my  trunk  and  ran  for 
the  station.  Such  tools,  clothes,  and  things  as  it 
would  not  hold  I sold  for  what  they  would  fetch, 
and  boarded  the  next  train  for  Buffalo,  which  was 
as  far  as  my  money  would  take  me. 

I cannot  resist  the  temptation  at  this  point  to 
carry  the  story  thirty  years  forward  to  last  winter. 


48  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

in  order  to  point  out  one  of  the  queer  happenings 
which  long  ago  caused  me  to  be  known  to  my  friends 
as  “ the  man  of  coincidences.”  I have  long  since 
ceased  to  consider  them  as  such,  though  in  this  one 
there  is  no  other  present  significance  than  that  it 
decided  a point  which  I had  been  turning  over  in 


“I  found  the  valley  deserted  and  dead.” 

my  own  mind,  of  moment  to  me  and  my  publisher. 
I was  lecturing  in  Pittsburg  at  the  time,  and  ran  up 
to  take  another  look  at  Brady’s  Bend.  I found  the 
valley  deserted  and  dead.  The  mills  were  gone. 
Disaster  had  overtaken  them  in  the  panic  of  1873, 
and  all  that  remained  of  the  huge  plant  was  a tot- 
tering stump  of  the  chimney  and  clusters  of  vacant 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


49 


houses  dropping  to  pieces  here  and  there.  Young 
trees  grew  out  of  the  cold  ashes  in  the  blast-furnace. 
All  about  was  desolation.  Strolling  down  by  the 
river  with  the  editor  of  the  local  paper  in  East 
Brady,  which  had  grown  into  a slow  little  railroad 
town,  my  eye  fell  upon  a wrecked  hut  in  which  I 
recognized  the  company’s  office.  The  shutters  were 
gone,  the  door  hung  on  one  hinge,  and  the  stairs 
had  rotted  away,  but  we  climbed  in  somehow.  It 
was  an  idle  quest,  said  my  companion ; all  the  books 
and  papers  had  been  sold  the  summer  before  to  a 
Pittsburg  junkman,  who  came  with  a cart  and  pitch- 
forked  them  into  it  as  so  much  waste  paper.  His 
trail  was  plain  within.  The  floor  was  littered  with 
torn  maps  and  newspapers  from  the  second  term 
of  President  Grant.  In  a rubbish  heap  I kicked 
against  something  more  solid  and  picked  it  up.  It 
was  the  only  book  left  in  the  place  : the  “ draw- 
book  ” for  the  years  1870-72;  and  almost  the  first 
name  I read  was  my  own,  as  having  received,  on 
July  19,  1870,  $10.63  in  settlement  of  my  account 
with  the  Brady’s  Bend  Company  when  I started  for 
the  war.  My  companion  stared.  I wrapped  up  the 
book  and  took  it  away  with  me.  I considered  that 
I had  a moral  right  to  it ; but  if  anybody  questions 
it,  it  is  at  his  service. 

Buffalo  was  full  of  Frenchmen,  but  they  did  not 
receive  me  with  a torchlight  procession.  They  even 


50 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


shrugged  their  shoulders  when  good  old  Pater  Bret- 
ton  took  up  my  cause  and  tried  to  get  me  forwarded 
at  least  to  New  York.  The  one  patriot  I found  to 
applaud  my  high  resolve  was  a French  pawnbroker, 
who,  with  many  compliments  and  shoulder  pattings, 
took  my  trunk  and  all  its  contents,  after  I had  paid 
my  board  out  of  it,  in  exchange  for  a ticket  to  New 
York.  He  took  my  watch,  too,  but  that  didn’t  keep 
time.  I remember  seeing  my  brush  go  with  a grim 
smile.  Having  no  clothes  to  brush,  I had  no  need 
of  it  any  longer.  That  pawnbroker  was  an  artist. 
The  year  after,  when  I was  in  Buffalo  again,  it 
occurred  to  me  to  go  in  and  see  if  I could  get  back 
any  of  my  belongings.  I was  just  a bit  ashamed  of 
myself,  and  represented  that  I was  a brother  of  the 
young  hothead  who  had  gone  to  the  war.  I thought 
I discovered  a pair  of  trousers  that  had  been  mine 
hanging  up  in  his  store,  but  the  Frenchman  was 
quicker  than  I.  His  eyes  followed  mine,  and  he 
took  instant  umbrage  : - — 

“ So  your  brother  vas  one  shump,  vas  he  ? ” he 
yelled.  Your  brother  vas  a long  sight  better  man 
zan  you,  mine  frient.  He  go  fight  for  la  France. 
You  stay  here.  Get  out!”  And  he  put  me  out, 
and  saved  the  day  and  the  trousers. 

It  was  never  a good  plan  for  me  to  lie.  It  never 
did  work  out  right,  not  once.  I have  found  the 
only  safe  plan  to  be  to  stick  to  the  truth  and  let  the 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


51 


house  come  down  if  it  must.  It  will  come  down 
anyhow. 

I reached  New  York  with  just  one  cent  in  my 
pocket,  and  put  up  at  a boarding-house  where  the 
charge  was  one  dollar  a day.  In  this  no  moral 
obliquity  was  involved.  I had  simply  reached  the 
goal  for  which  I had  sacrificed  all,  and  felt  sure  that 
the  French  people  or  the  Danish  Consul  would  do 
the  rest  quickly.  But  there  was  evidently  some- 
thing wrong  somewhere.  The  Danish  Consul 
could  only  register  my  demand  to  be  returned  to 
Denmark  in  the  event  of  war.  They  have  my  let- 
ter at  the  office  yet,  he  tells  me,  and  they  will  call 
me  out  with  the  reserves.  The  French  were  fitting 
out  no  volunteer  army  that  I could  get  on  the  track 
of,  and  nobody  was  paying  the  passage  of  fighting 
men.  The  end  of  it  was  that,  after  pawning  my 
revolver  and  my  top-boots,  the  only  valuable  pos- 
sessions I had  left,  to  pay  for  my  lodging,  I was 
thrown  on  the  street,  and  told  to  come  back  when  I 
had  more  money.  That  night  I wandered  about 
New  York  with  a gripsack  that  had  only  a linen 
duster  and  a pair  of  socks  in  it,  turning  over  in  my 
mind  what  to  do  next.  Toward  midnight  I passed 
a house  in  Clinton  Place  that  was  lighted  up  fes- 
tively. Laughter  and  the  hum  of  many  voices 
came  from  within.  I listened.  They  spoke 
French.  A society  of  Frenchmen  having  their 


52 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


annual  dinner,  the  watchman  in  the  block  told  me. 
There  at  last  was  my  chance.  I went  up  the  steps 
and  rang  the  bell.  A flunkey  in  a dress-suit  opened, 
but  when  he  saw  that  I was  not  a guest,  but  to  all 
appearances  a tramp,  he  tried  to  put  me  out.  I,  on 
my  part,  tried  to  explain.  There  was  an  altercation, 
and  two  gentlemen  of  the  society  appeared.  They 
listened  impatiently  to  what  I had  to  say,  then,  with- 
out a word,  thrust  me  into  the  street  and  slammed 
the  door  in  my  face. 

It  was  too  much.  Inwardly  raging,  I shook  the 
dust  of  the  city  from  my  feet,  and  took  the  most 
direct  route  out  of  it,  straight  up  Third  Avenue.  I 
walked  till  the  stars  in  the  east  began  to  pale,  and 
then  climbed  into  a wagon  that  stood  at  the  curb  to 
sleep.  I did  not  notice  that  it  was  a milk-wagon. 
The  sun  had  not  risen  yet  when  the  driver  came, 
unceremoniously  dragged  me  out  by  the  feet,  and 
dumped  me  into  the  gutter.  On  I went  with 
my  gripsack,  straight  ahead,  until  toward  noon  I 
reached  Fordham  College,  famished  and  footsore. 
I had  eaten  nothing  since  the  previous  day,  and  had 
vainly  tried  to  make  a bath  in  the  Bronx  River  do 
for  breakfast.  Not  yet  could  I cheat  my  stomach 
that  way. 

The  college  gates  were  open,  and  I strolled  wearily 
in,  without  aim  or  purpose.  On  a lawn  some  young 
men  were  engaged  in  athletic  exercises,  and  I stopped 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


53 


to  look  and  admire  the  beautiful  shade-trees  and  the 
imposing  building.  So  at  least  it  seems  to  me  at 
this  distance.  An  old  monk  in  a cowl,  whose  noble 
face  I sometimes  recall  in  my  dreams,  came  over  and 
asked  kindly  if  I was  not  hungry.  I was  in  all  con- 
science fearfully  hungry,  and  I said  so,  though  I did 
not  mean  to.  I had  never  seen  a real  live  monk 
before,  and  my  Lutheran  training  had  not  exactly 
inclined  me  in  their  favor.  I ate  of  the  food  set 
before  me,  not  without  qualms  of  conscience,  and 
with  a secret  suspicion  that  I would  next  be  asked 
to  abjure  my  faith,  or  at  least  do  homage  to  the  Vir- 
gin Mary,  which  I was  firmly  resolved  not  to  do. 
But  when,  the  meal  finished,  I was  sent  on  my  way 
with  enough  to  do  me  for  supper,  without  the  least 
allusion  having  been  made  to  my  soul,  I felt  heartily 
ashamed  of  myself.  I am  just  as  good  a Protestant 
as  I ever  was.  Among  my  own  I am  a kind  of 
heretic  even,  because  I cannot  put  up  with  the  apos- 
tolic succession ; but  I have  no  quarrel  with  the 
excellent  charities  of  the  Roman  Church,  or  with 
the  noble  spirit  that  animates  them.  I learned  that 
lesson  at  Fordham  thirty  years  ago. 

Up  the  railroad  track  I went,  and  at  night  hired 
out  to  a truck-farmer,  with  the  freedom  of  his  hay- 
mow for  my  sleeping  quarters.  But  when  I had 
hoed  cucumbers  three  days  in  a scorching  sun,  till 
my  back  ached  as  if  it  were  going  to  break,  and  the 


54 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


farmer  guessed  that  he  would  call  it  square  for  three 
shillings,  I went  farther.  A man  is  not  necessarily 
a philanthropist,  it  seems,  because  he  tills  the  soil. 
I did  not  hire  out  again.  I did  odd  jobs  to  earn  my 
meals,  and  slept  in  the  fields  at  night,  still  turning 
over  in  my  mind  how  to  get  across  the  sea.  An 
incident  of  those  wanderings  comes  to  mind  while 
I am  writing.  They  were  carting  in  hay,  and  when 
night  came  on,  somewhere  about  Mount  Vernon,  I 
gathered  an  armful  of  wisps  that  had  fallen  from  the 
loads,  and  made  a bed  for  myself  in  a wagon-shed 
by  the  roadside.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  I was 
awakened  by  a loud  outcry.  A fierce  light  shone 
in  my  face.  It  was  the  lamp  of  a carriage  that  had 
been  driven  into  the  shed.  I was  lying  between  the 
horse’s  feet  unhurt.  A gentleman  sprang  from  the 
carriage,  more  frightened  than  I,  and  bent  over  me. 
When  he  found  that  I had  suffered  no  injury,  he 
put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  held  out  a silver 
quarter. 

“ Go,”  he  said,  “ and  drink  it  up.” 

“ Drink  it  up  yourself ! ” I shouted  angrily. 
“What  do  you  take  me  for?” 

They  were  rather  high  heroics,  seeing  where  I 
was,  but  he  saw  nothing  to  laugh  at.  He  looked 
earnestly  at  me  for  a moment,  then  held  out  his 
hand  and  shook  mine  heartily.  “ I believe  you,”  he 
said ; “ yet  you  need  it,  or  you  would  not  sleep  here. 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


55 


Now  will  you  take  it  from  me  ? ” And  I took  the 
money. 

The  next  day  it  rained,  and  the  next  day  after 
that,  and  I footed  it  back  to  the  city,  still  on  my 
vain  quest.  A quarter  is  not  a great  capital  to  sub- 
sist on  in  New  York  when  one  is  not  a beggar  and 
has  no  friends.  Two  days  of  it  drove  me  out  again 
to  find  at  least  the  food  to  keep  me  alive;  but  in 
those  two  days  I met  the  man  who,  long  years  after, 
was  to  be  my  honored  chief,  Charles  A.  Dana,  the 
editor  of  the  Sun.  There  had  been  an  item  in 
the  Sim  about  a volunteer  regiment  being  fitted 
out  for  France.  I went  up  to  the  office,  and  was 
admitted  to  Mr.  Dana’s  presence.  I fancy  I must 
have  appealed  to  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  dressed 
in  top-boots  and  a linen  duster  much  the  worse  for 
wear,  and  demanding  to  be  sent  out  to  fight.  He 
knew  nothing  about  recruiting.  Was  I French  ? 
No,  Danish;  it  had  been  in  his  paper  about  the 
regiment.  He  smiled  a little  at  my  faith,  and  said 
editors  sometimes  did  not  know  about  everything 
that  was  in  their  papers.  I turned  to  go,  grievously 
disappointed,  but  he  called  me  back. 

“ Have  you,”  he  said,  looking  searchingly  at  me, 
“have  you  had  your  breakfast?  ” 

No,  God  knows  that  I had  not;  neither  that  day 
nor  for  many  days  before.  That  was  one  of  the 
things  I had  at  last  learned  to  consider  among  the 


56 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


superfluities  of  an  effete  civilization.  I suppose  I 
had  no  need  of  telling  it  to  him,  for  it  was  plain  to 
read  in  my  face.  He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  pulled  out  a dollar. 

“ There,”  he  said,  “ go  and  get  your  breakfast ; 
and  better  give  up  the  war.” 

Give  up  the  war ! and  for  a breakfast.  I spurned 
the  dollar  hotly.  ' 

“ I came  here  to  enlist,  not  to  beg  money  for 
breakfast,”  I said,  and  strode  out  of  the  office,  my 
head  in  the  air  but  my  stomach  crying  out  miser- 
ably in  rebellion  against  my  pride.  I revenged 
myself  upon  it  by  leaving  my  top-boots  with  the 
“ uncle,”  who  was  my  only  friend  and  relative  here, 
and  filling  my  stomach  upon  the  proceeds.  I had 
one  good  dinner  anyhow,  for  when  I got  through 
there  was  only  twenty-five  cents  left  of  the  dollar  I 
borrowed  upon  my  last  article  of  “ dress.”  That  I 
paid  for  a ticket  to  Perth  Amboy,  near  which  place 
I found  work  in  Pfeiffer’s  clay-bank. 

Pfeiffer  was  a German,  but  his  wife  was  Irish  and 
so  were  his  hands,  all  except  a giant  Norwegian 
and  myself.  The  third  day  was  Sunday,  and  was 
devoted  to  drinking  much  beer,  which  Pfeiffer, 
with  an  eye  to  business,  furnished  on  the  premises. 
When  they  were  drunk,  the  tribe  turned  upon  the 
Norwegian,  and  threw  him  out.  It  seems  that  this 
was  a regular  weekly  occurrence.  Me  they  fired 


I LAND  IN  NEW  YORK 


57 


out  at  the  same  time,  but  afterward  paid  no  atten 
tion  to  me.  The  whole  crew  of  them  perched  on 
the  Norwegian  and  belabored  him  with  broomsticks 
and  bale-sticks  until  they  roused  the  sleeping  Ber- 
serk in  him.  As  I was  coming  to  his  relief,  I saw 
the  human  heap  heave  and  rock.  From  under  it 
arose  the  enraged  giant,  tossed  his  tormentors  aside 
as  if  they  were  so  much  chaff,  battered  down  the 
door  of  the  house  in  which  they  took  refuge,  and 
threw  them  all,  Mrs.  Pfeiffer  included,  through  the 
window.  They  were  not  hurt,  and  within  two 
hours  they  were  drinking  more  beer  together  and 
swearing  at  one  another  endearingly.  I concluded 
that  I had  better  go  on,  though  Mr.  Pfeiffer  regret- 
ted that  he  never  paid  his  hands  in  the  middle  of 
the  month.  It  appeared  afterward  that  he  objected 
likewise  to  paying  them  at  the  end  of  the  month,  or 
at  the  beginning  of  the  next.  He  owes  me  two 
days’  wages  yet. 


CHAPTER  III 


I GO  TO  WAR  AT  LAST  AND  SOW  THE  SEED  OF 
FUTURE  CAMPAIGNS 

At  sunset  on  the  second  day  after  my  desertion 
of  Pfeiffer  I walked  across  a footbridge  into  a city 
with  many  spires,  in  one  of  which  a chime  of  bells 
rang  out  a familiar  tune.  The  city  was  New  Bruns- 
wick. I turned  down  a side  street  where  two  stone 
churches  stood  side  by  side.  A gate  in  the  picket 
fence  had  been  left  open,  and  I went  in  looking  for 
a place  to  sleep.  Back  in  the  churchyard  I found 
what  I sought  in  the  brownstone  slab  covering  the 
tomb  of,  I know  now,  an  old  pastor  of  the  Dutch 
Reformed  Church,  who  died  full  of  wisdom  and 
grace.  I am  afraid  that  I was  not  overburdened 
with  either,  or  I might  have  gone  to  bed  with  a full 
stomach  too,  instead  of  chewing  the  last  of  the 
windfall  apples  that  had  been  my  diet  on  my  two 
days’  trip ; but  if  he  slept  as  peacefully  under  the 
slab  as  I slept  on  it,  he  was  doing  well.  I had  for 
once  a dry  bed,  and  brownstone  keeps  warm  long 
after  the  sun  has  set.  The  nie^ht  dews  and  the 
snakes,  and  the  dogs  that  kept  sniffing  and  growl- 

58 


I GO  TO  WAR 


59 


“The  dead  were  much  better  company.’’ 

ing  half  the  night  in  the  near  distance,  had  made 
me  tired  of  sleeping  in  the  fields.  The  dead  were 
much  better  company.  They  minded  their  own 
business,  and  let  a fellow  alone. 

Before  sun-up  I was  on  the  tow-path  looking  for 
a job.  Mules  were  in  demand  there,  not  men. 
The  drift  caught  me  once  more,  and  toward  even- 
ing cast  me  up  at  a country  town  then  called  Little 
Washington,  now  South  River.  How  I got  there 
I do  not  now  remember.  My  diary  from  tliose 
days  says  nothing  about  it.  Years  after,  I went 


6o 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


back  over  that  road  and  accepted  a “lift”  from 
a farmer  going  my  way.  We  passed  through  a 
toll-gate,  and  I wondered  how  the  keeper  came  to 
collect  uneven  money.  We  were  two  men  and  two 
horses.  When  I came  back  the  day  after,  I found 
out.  So  many  cents,  read  the  weather-beaten  sign 
that  swung  from  the  gate,  for  team  and  driver,  so 
many  for  each  additional  beast.  I had  gone 
through  as  an  additional  beast. 

A short  walk  from  Little  Washington  I found 
work  in  Pettits  brick-yard  at  $22  a month  and 
board.  That  night,  when  I turned  in  after  a square 
meal,  in  an  old  wagon  I had  begged  for  a bed,  I felt 
like  a capitalist.  I took  to  the  wagon  because  one 
look  within  the  barracks  had  shown  them  to  be 
impossible.  Whether  it  was  that,  or  the  fact  that 
most  of  the  other  hands  were  Germans,  who  felt  in 
duty  bound  to  celebrate  each  victory  over  the 
French  as  it  was  reported  day  by  day,  and  so  pro- 
voked me  to  wrath  — from  the  first  we  didn’t  get 
on.  They  made  a point  whenever  they  came  back 
from  their  celebrations  in  the  village,  of  dragging 
my  wagon,  with  me  fast  asleep  in  it,  down  into  the 
river,  where  by  and  by  the  tide  rose  and  searched 
me  out.  Then  I had  to  swim  for  it.  That  was  of 
less  account.  Our  costume  was  not  elaborate,  — a 
pair  of  overalls,  a woollen  shirt,  and  a straw  hat,  that 
was  all,  and  a wetting  was  rather  welcome  than 


I GO  TO  WAR 


6l 


otherwise ; but  they  dubbed  me  Bismarck,  and  that 
was  not  to  be  borne.  My  passionate  protest  only 
made  them  laugh  the  louder.  Yet  they  were  not 
an  ill-natured  lot,  rather  the  reverse.  Saturday 
afternoon  was  our  wash-day,  when  we  all  sported 
together  in  peace  and  harmony  in  the  river. 
When  we  came  out,  we  spread  our  clothes  to  dry 
on  the  roof  of  the  barracks,  while  we  burrowed 
each  in  a hill  of  white  sand,  and  smoked  our  pipes 
far  into  the  night,  with  only  our  heads  and  the 
hand  that  held  the  pipe  sticking  out.  That  was  for 
protection  against  mosquitoes.  It  must  have  been 
a sight,  one  of  those  Saturday  night  confabs,  but  it 
was  solid  comfort  after  the  week’s  work. 

Bricks  are  made  literally  while  the  sun  shines. 
The  day  begins  with  the  first  glimmer  of  light  in 
the  east,  and  is  not  over  till  the  “ pits”  are  worked 
out.  It  was  my  task  to  cart  clay  in  the  afternoon 
to  fill  them  up  again.  It  was  an  idle  enough  kind 
of  job.  All  I had  to  do  was  to  walk  alongside  my 
horse,  a big  white  beast  with  no  joints  at  all  except 
where  its  legs  were  hinged  to  the  backbone,  back 
it  up  to  the  pit,  and  dump  the  load.  But,  walking 
so  in  the  autumn  sun,  I fell  a-dreaming.  I forgot 
claybank  and  pit.  I was  back  in  the  old  town  — 
saw  her  play  among  the  timber.  I met  her  again 
on  the  Long  Bridge.  I held  her  hands  once  more 
in  that  last  meeting  — the  while  I was  mechanically 


62 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


backing  my  load  up  to  the  pit  and  making  ready 
to  dump  it.  Day-dreams  are  out  of  place  in  a brick- 
yard. I forgot  to  take  out  the  tail-board.  To  my 
amazement,  I beheld  the  old  horse  skating  around, 
making  frantic  efforts  to  keep  its  grip  on  the  soil, 
then  slowly  rise  before  my  bewildered  gaze,  clawing 
feebly  at  the  air  as  it  went  up  and  over,  backwards 
into  the  pit,  load,  cart  and  all. 

I wish  for  my  own  reputation  that  I could  truly 
say  I wept  for  the  poor  beast.  I am  sure  I felt  for  it, 
but  the  reproachful  look  it  gave  me  as  it  lay  there 
on  its  back,  its  four  feet  pointing  skyward,  was 
too  much.  I sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  pit  and 
shouted  with  laughter,  feeling  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  my  levity.  Mr.  Pettit  himself  checked  it,  run- 
ning in  with  his  boys  and  demanding  to  know  what 
I was  doing.  They  had  seen  the  accident  from  the 
office,  and  at  once  set  about  getting  the  horse  out. 
That  was  no  easy  matter.  It  was  not  hurt  at  all, 
but  it  had  fallen  so  as  to  bend  one  of  the  shafts  of 
the  truck  like  a bow.  It  had  to  be  sawed  in  two 
to  get  the  horse  out.  When  that  was  done,  the 
heavy  ash  stick,  rebounding  suddenly,  struck  one 
of  the  boys,  who  stood  by,  a blow  on  the  head  that 
laid  him  out  senseless  beside  the  cart. 

It  was  no  time  for  lauMiter  then.  We  ran  for 

O 

water  and  restoratives,  and  brought  him  to,  white 
and  weak.  The  horse  by  that  time  had  been  lifted 


I GO  TO  WAR 


63 


to  his  feet  and  stood  trembling  in  every  limb,  ready 
to  drop.  It  was  a sobered  driver  that  climbed  out 
of  the  pit  at  the  tail  end  of  the  procession  which 
bore  young  Pettit  home.  I spent  a miserable  hour 
hanging  around  the  door  of  the  house  waiting  for 
news  of  him.  In  the  end  his  father  came  out  to 
comfort  me  with  the  assurance  that  he  would  be 
all  right.  I was  not  even  discharged,  though  I 
was  deposed  from  the  wagon  to  the  command  of 
a truck  of  which  I was  myself  the  horse.  I “ ran 
out”  brick  from  the  pit  after  that  in  the  morning. 

More  than  twenty  years  after,  addressing  the 
students  of  Rutgers  College,  I told  them  of  my 
experience  in  the  brick-yard  which  was  so  near 
them.  At  the  end  of  my  address  a gentleman 
came  up  to  me  and  said,  with  a twinkle  in  his  eye : 

“ So  that  was  you,  was  it  ? My  name  is  Pettit, 
and  I work  the  brick-yard  now.  I helped  my 
father  get  that  horse  out  of  the  pit,  and  I have 
cause  to  remember  that  knock  on  the  head.”  He 
made  me  promise  sometime  to  tell  him  what  hap- 
pened to  me  since,  and  if  he  will  attend  now  he 
will  have  it  all. 

I had  been  six  weeks  in  the  brick-yard  when  one 
day  I heard  of  a company  of  real  volunteers  that 
was  ready  to  sail  for  France,  and  forthwith  the  war 
fever  seized  me  ao^ain.  That  niMit  I set  out  for 
Little  Washington,  and  the  next  mornings  steamer 


64 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


bore  me  past  the  brick-yard,  where  the  German 
hands  dropped  their  barrows  and  cheered  me  on 
with  a howl  of  laughter  that  was  yet  not  all  deri- 
sion. I had  kept  my  end  up  with  them  and  they 
knew  it.  They  had  lately  let  my  sleeping-car  alone 
in  the  old  barn.  Their  shouts  rang  in  my  ears, 
nevertheless,  when  I reached  New  York  and  found 
that  the  volunteers  were  gone,  and  that  I was  once 
more  too  late.  I fell  back  on  the  French  Consul 
then,  but  was  treated  very  cavalierly  there.  I sup- 
pose I became  a nuisance,  for  when  I called  the 
twelfth  or  twentieth  time  at  the  office  in  Bowling 
Green,  he  waxed  wroth  with  sudden  vehemence 
and  tried  to  put  me  out. 

Then  ensued  the  only  fight  of  the  war  in  which 
I was  destined  to  have  a part,  and  that  on  the 
wrong  side.  My  gorge  rose  at  these  continual  in- 
sults. I grabbed  the  French  Consul  by  the  nose,  and 
in  a moment  we  were  rolling  down  the  oval  stairs 
together,  clawing  and  fighting  for  all  we  were  worth. 
I know  it  was  inexcusable,  but  consider  the  provoca- 
tion ; after  all  I had  sacrificed  to  serve  his  people, 
to  be  put  out  the  second  time  like  a beggar  and  a 
tramp ! I had  this  one  chance  of  getting  even, 
and  that  I took  it  was  only  human.  The  racket  we 
made  on  the  stairs  roused  the  whole  house.  All 
the  clerks  ran  out  and  threw  themselves  upon  me. 
They  tore  me  away  from  the  sacred  person  of  the 


I GO  TO  WAR 


65 


Consul  and  thrust  me  out  into  the  street  bleeding 
and  with  a swollen  eye  to  rage  there,  comforted 
only  by  the  assurance  that  without  a doubt  both 
his  were  black.  I am  a little  ashamed  — not  very 
much  — of  the  fact  that  it  comforts  me  even  now 
to  think  of  it.  He  really  did  me  a favor,  that 
Consul ; but  he  was  no  good.  He  certainly  was 
not. 

It  is  to  be  recorded  to  the  credit  of  my  reso- 
lution, if  not  of  my  common  sense,  that  even  after 
that  I made  two  attempts  to  get  over  to  France. 
The  one  was  with  the  captain  of  a French  man-of- 
war  that  lay  in  the  harbor.  He  would  not  listen 
to  me  at  all.  The  other,  and  the  last,  was  more 
successful.  I actually  got  a job  as  stoker  on  a 
French  steamer  that  was  to  sail  for  Havre  that  day 
in  an  hour.  I ran  all  the  way  down  to  Battery 
Place,  where  I had  my  valise  in  a boarding-house, 
and  all  the  way  back,  arriving  at  the  pier  breath- 
less, in  time  to  see  my  steamer  swing  out  in  the 
stream  beyond  my  reach.  It  was  the  last  straw. 
I sat  on  the  stringpiece  and  wept  with  mortifica- 
tion. When  I arose  and  went  my  way,  the  war 
was  over,  as  far  as  I was  concerned.  It  was  that 
in  fact,  as  it  speedily  appeared.  The  country  which 
to-day,  after  thirty  years  of  trial  and  bereavement, 
is  still  capable  of  the  Dreyfus  infamy,  was  not  fit 
to  hold  what  was  its  own.  I am  glad  now  that  I 


66 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


did  not  go,  though  I cannot  honestly  say  that  I 
deserve  any  credit  for  it. 

All  my  money  was  gone,  and  an  effort  I made 
to  join  a railroad  gang  in  the  Spuyten  Duyvil  cut 
came  to  nothing.  Again  I reenforced  my  credit 
with  my  revolver  and  the  everlasting  top-boots,  but 
the  two  or  three  dollars  they  brought  at  the  pawn- 
shop were  soon  gone,  and  once  more  I was  turned 
out  in  the  street.  It  was  now  late  in  the  fall.  The 
brick-making  season  was  over.  The  city  was  full 
of  idle  men.  My  last  hope,  a promise  of  employ- 
ment in  a human-hair  factory,  failed,  and,  homeless 
and  penniless,  I joined  the  great  army  of  tramps, 
wandering  about  the  streets  in  the  daytime  with 
the  one  aim  of  somehow  stilling  the  hunger  that 
gnawed  at  my  vitals,  and  fighting  at  night  with 
vagrant  curs  or  outcasts  as  miserable  as  myself  for 
the  protection  of  some  sheltering  ash-bin  or  door- 
way. I was  too  proud  in  all  my  misery  to  beg.  I 
do  not  believe  I ever  did.  But  I remember  well 
a basement  window  at  the  down-town  Delmonico’s, 
the  silent  appearance  of  my  ravenous  face  at  which, 
at  a certain  hour  in  the  evening,  always  evoked  a 
generous  supply  of  meat-bones  and  rolls  from  a 
white-capped  cook  who  spoke  French.  That  was 
the  saving  clause.  I accepted  his  rolls  as  instal- 
ments of  the  debt  his  country  owed  me,  or  ought 
to  owe  me,  for  my  unavailing  efforts  in  its  behalf. 


I GO  TO  WAR 


6; 


It  was  under  such  auspices  that  I made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Mulberry  Bend,  the  Five  Points,  and 
the  rest  of  the  slum,  with  which  there  was  in  the 
years  to  come  to  be  a 
reckoning.  For  half 
a lifetime  afterward 
they  were  my  haunts 
by  day  and  by 
night,  as  a police 
reporter,  and  I can 
fairly  lay  claim,  it 
seems  to  me,  to 
a personal  knowl- 
edge of  the  evil  I 
attacked.  I speak 
of  this  because,  in 
a batch  of  reviews 
of  “ A Ten  Years’ 

War”^  which  came 
yesterday  from  my 
publishers  to  me 
there  is  one  which 
lays  it  all  to  “ maudlin 
sensitiveness  ” on  my  part. 

The  slum,”  says  this  writer,  “ is  not  at  all  so 
unspeakably  vile,”  and  measures  for  relief  based 
on  my  arraignment  “ must  be  necessarily  abortive.” 
Every  once  in  a while  I am  asked  why  I became 


TOCA!\T\.u 


Lunching  at  Delmonico’s. 


^ Now,  “ The  Battle  with  the  Slum.” 


68 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


a newspaper  man.  For  one  thing,  because  there 
were  writers  of  such  trash,  who,  themselves  com- 
fortably lodged,  have  not  red  blood  enough  in  their 
veins  to  feel  for  those  to  whom  everything  is  de- 
nied, and  not  sense  enough  to  make  out  the  facts 
when  they  see  them,  or  they  would  not  call  play- 
grounds, schoolhouses,  and  better  tenements  “ abor- 
tive measures.”  Some  one  had  to  tell  the  facts ; 
that  is  one  reason  why  I became  a reporter.  And 
I am  going  to  stay  one  until  the  last  of  that  ilk  has 
ceased  to  discourage  men  from  trying  to  help  their 
fellows  by  the  shortest  cut  they  can  find,  whether  it 
fits  in  a theory  or  not.  I don’t  care  two  pins  for  all 
the  social  theories  that  were  ever  made  unless  they 
help  to  make  better  men  and  women  by  bettering 
their  lot.  I have  had  cranks  of  that  order,  who 
rated  as  sensible  beings  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of 
life,  tell  me  that  I was  doing  harm  rather  than  good 
by  helping  improve  the  lot  of  the  poor ; it  delayed 
the  final  day  of  justice  we  were  waiting  for.  Not  I. 
I don’t  propose  to  wait  an  hour  for  it,  if  I can  help 
bring  it  on;  and  I know  I can. 

There ! I don’t*  believe  I have  read  fifteen  re- 
views of  any  of  my  books.  Life  is  too  short;  but  I 
am  glad  I did  not  miss  that  one.  Those  are  the 
fellows  for  whom  Roosevelt  is  not  a good  enough 
reformer ; who  chill  the  enthusiasm  of  mankind  with 
a deadly  chill,  and  miscall  it  method  — science. 


I GO  TO  WAR  69 

The  science  of  how  not  to  do  a thing  — yes ! 
They  make  me  tired. 

There  was  until  last  winter  a doorway  in  Chatham 
Square,  that  of  the  old  Barnum  clothing  store, 
which  I could  never  pass  without  recalling  those 
nights  of  hopeless  misery  with  the  policeman’s 
periodic  “ Get  up  there  ! move  on  ! ” reenforced  by 
a prod  of  his  club  or  the  toe  of  his  boot.  I slept 
there,  or  tried  to  when  crowded  out  of  the  tenements 
in  the  Bend  by  their  utter  nastiness.  Cold  and  wet 
weather  had  set  in,  and  a linen  duster  was  all  that 
covered  my  back.  There  was  a woollen  blanket  in 
my  trunk  which  I had  from  home  — the  one,  my 
mother  had  told  me,  in  which  I was  wrapped  when 
I was  born;  but  the  trunk  was  in  the  “hotel”  as 
security  for  money  I owed  for  board,  and  I asked 
for  it  in  vain.  I was  now  too  shabby  to  get  work, 
even  if  there  had  been  any  to  get.  I had  letters 
still  to  friends  of  my  family  in  New  York  who  might 
have  helped  me,  but  hunger  and  want  had  not  con- 
quered my  pride.  I would  come  to  them,  if  at  all, 
as  their  equal,  and,  lest  I fall  into  temptation,  I 
destroyed  the  letters.  So,  having  burned  my  bridges 
behind  me,  I was  finally  and  utterly  alone  in  the 
city,  with  the  winter  approaching  and  every  shiver- 
ing night  in  the  streets  reminding  me  that  a time 
was  rapidly  coming  when  such  a life  as  I led  could 
no  longer  be  endured. 


;o 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Not  in  a thousand  years  would  I be  likely  to  for- 
get the  night  when  it  came.  It  had  rained  all  day, 
a cold  October  storm,  and  night  found  me,  with  the 
chill  downpour  unabated,  down  by  the  North  River, 
soaked  through  and  through,  with  no  chance  for  a 
supper,  forlorn  and  discouraged.  I sat  on  the  bul- 
wark, listening  to  the  falling  rain  and  the  swish  of 
the  dark  tide,  and  thinking  of  home.  How  far  it 
seemed,  and  how  impassable  the  gulf  now  between 
the  “ castle  ” with  its  refined  ways,  between  her  in 
her  dainty  girlhood  and  me  sitting  there,  numbed 
with  the  cold  that  was  slowly  stealing  away  my 
senses  with  my  courage.  There  was  warmth  and 

cheer  where  she  was.  Here An  overpowering 

sense  of  desolation  came  upon  me.  I hitched  a 
little  nearer  the  edge.  What  if  — ? Would  they 
miss  me  much  or  long  at  home  if  no  word  came 
from  me  ? Perhaps  they  might  never  hear.  What 
was  the  use  of  keeping  it  up  any  longer  with,  God 
help  us,  everything  against  and  nothing  to  back  a 
lonely  lad  ? 

And  even  then  the  help  came.  A wet  and  shiver- 
ing body  was  pressed  against  mine,  and  I felt  rather 
than  heard  a piteous  whine  in  my  ear.  It  was  my 
companion  in  misery,  a little  outcast  black-and-tan, 
afflicted  with  fits,  that  had  shared  the  shelter  of  a 
friendly  doorway  with  me  one  cold  night  and  had 
clung  to  me  ever  since  with  a loyal  affection  that 


I GO  TO  WAR 


n 


was  the  one  bright  spot  in  my  hard  life.  As  my 
hand  stole  mechanically  down  to  caress  it,  it  crept 
upon  my  knees  and  licked  my  face,  as  if  it  meant  to 
tell  me  that  there  was  one  who  understood ; that  I 
was  not  alone.  And  the  love  of  the  faithful  little 
beast  thawed  the  icicles  in  my  heart.  I picked  it 
up  in  my  arms  and  fled  from  the  tempter ; fled  to 
where  there  were  lights  and  men  moving,  if  they 
cared  less  for  me  than  I for  them  — anywhere  so 
that  I saw  and  heard  the  river  no  more. 

In  the  midnight  hour  we  walked  into  the  Church 
Street  police  station  and  asked  for  lodging.  The 
rain  was  still  pouring  in  torrents.  The  sergeant 
spied  the  dog  under  my  tattered  coat  and  gruffly 
told  me  to  put  it  out,  if  I wanted  to  sleep  there.  I 
pleaded  for  it  in  vain.  There  was  no  choice.  To 
stay  in  the  street  was  to  perish.  So  I left  my  dog 
out  on  the  stoop,  where  it  curled  up  to  wait  for  me. 
Poor  little  friend ! It  was  its  last  watch.  The 
lodging-room  was  jammed  with  a foul  and  stewing 
crowd  of  tramps.  A loud-mouthed  German  was 
holding  forth  about  the  war  in  Europe,  and  crowding 
me  on  my  plank.  Cold  and  hunger  had  not  sufficed 
to  put  out  the  patriotic  spark  within  me.  It  was 
promptly  fanned  into  flame,  and  I told  him  what  I 
thought  of  him  and  his  crew.  Some  Irishmen 
cheered  and  fomented  trouble,  and  the  doorman 
came  in  threatening  to  lock  us  all  up.  I smothered 


72 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


my  disgust  at  the  place  as  well  as  I could,  and  slept, 
wearied  nearly  to  death. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  I awoke  with  a feeling 
that  something  was  wrong.  Instinctively  I felt  for 
the  little  gold  locket  I wore  under  my  shirt,  with  a 
part  of  the  precious  curl  in  it  that  was  my  last  link 
with  home.  It  was  gone.  I had  felt  it  there  the 
last  thing  before  I fell  asleep.  One  of  the  tramp 
lodgers  had  cut  the  string  and  stolen  it.  With  angry 
tears  I went  up  and  complained  to  the  sergeant  that 
I had  been  robbed.  He  scowled  at  me  over  the 
blotter,  called  me  a thief,  and  said  that  he  had  a 
good  mind  to  lock  me  up.  How  should  I,  a tramp 
boy,  have  come  by  a gold  locket } He  had  heard, 
he  added,  that  I had  said  in  the  lodging-room  that 
I wished  the  French  would  win,  and  he  would  only 
be  giving  me  what  I deserved  if  he  sent  me  to  the 
Island.  I heard  and  understood.  He  was  himself 
a German.  All  my  sufferings  rose  up  before  me, 
all  the  bitterness  of  my  soul  poured  itself  out  upon 
him.  I do  not  know  what  I said.  I remember  that 
he  told  the  doorman  to  put  me  out.  And  he  seized 
me  and  threw  me  out  of  the  door,  coming  after  to 
kick  me  down  the  stoop. 

My  dog  had  been  waiting,  never  taking  its  eyes 
off  the  door,  until  I should  come  out.  When  it  saw 
me  in  the  grasp  of  the  doorman,  it  fell  upon  him  at 
once,  fastening  its  teeth  in  his  leg.  He  let  go  of  me 


I GO  TO  WAR 


73 


with  a yell  of  pain,  seized  the  poor  little  beast  by  the 
legs,  and  beat  its  brains  out  against  the  stone  steps. 


The  Fight  on  the  Police  Station  Steps. 

At  the  sight  a blind  rage  seized  me.  Raving 
like  a madman,  I stormed  the  police  station  with 
paving-stones  from  the  gutter.  The  fury  of  my  on- 
set frightened  even  the  sergeant,  who  saw,  perhaps, 
that  he  had  gone  too  far,  and  he  called  two  police- 


74 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


men  to  disarm  and  conduct  me  out  of  the  precinct, 
anywhere  so  that  he  got  rid  of  me.  They  marched 
me  to  the  nearest  ferry  and  turned  me  loose.  The 
ferry-master  halted  me.  I had  no  money,  but  I gave 
him  a silk  handkerchief,  the  last  thing  about  me  that 
had  any  value,  and  for  that  he  let  me  cross  to  Jersey 
City.  I shook  the  dust  of  New  York  from  my  feet, 
vowing  that  I would  never  return,  and,  setting  my 
face  toward  the  west,  marched  straight  out  the  first 
railroad  track  I came  to. 

And  now,  right  here,  begins  the  part  of  my  story 
that  is  my  only  excuse  for  writing  down  these  facts, 
though  it  will  not  appear  for  a while  yet.  The  out- 
rage of  that  night  became,  in  the  providence  of  God, 
the  means  of  putting  an  end  to  one  of  the  foulest 
abuses  that  ever  disgraced  a Christian  city,  and 
a mainspring  in  the  battle  with  the  slum  as  far  as 
my  share  in  it  is  concerned.  My  dog  did  not  die 
unavenged. 

I walked  all  day,  following  the  track,  and  in  the 
afternoon  crossed  the  long  trestlework  of  the  Jersey 
Central  Railroad  over  Newark  Bay,  with  my  face 
set  toward  Philadelphia.  I had  friends  there,  distant 
relatives,  and  had  at  last  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to 
them  and  ask  them  to  start  me  afresh.  On  the 
road  which  I had  chosen  for  myself  I had  come  to 
the  jumping-off  place.  Before  night  I found  com- 
pany in  other  tramps  who  had  been  over  the  road 


I GO  TO  WAR 


75 


before  and  knew  just  what  towns  to  go  around  and 
which  to  walk  through  boldly.  Rahway,  if  I re- 
member rightly,  was  one  of  those  to  be  severely 
shunned.  I discovered  presently  that  I was  on  the 
great  tramps’  highway,  with  the  column  moving 
south  on  its  autumn  hegira  to  warmer  climes.  I 
cannot  say  I fancied  the  company.  Tramps  never 
had  any  attraction  for  me,  as  a sociological  problem 
or  otherwise.  I was  compelled,  more  than  once,  to 
be  of  and  with  them,  but  I shook  their  company  as 
quickly  as  I could.  As  for  the  “ problem  ” they  are 
supposed  to  represent,  I think  the  workhouse  and 
the  police  are  quite  competent  to  deal  with  that, 
provided  it  is  not  a Tammany  police.  It  does  not 
differ  appreciably  from  the  problem  of  human  lazi- 
ness in  any  other  shape  or  age.  We  got  some  light 
on  that,  which  ought  to  convince  anybody,  when 
under  Mayor  Strong’s  administration  we  tried  to 
deal  intelligently  with  vagrancy.  One-half  of  the 
homeless  applicants  for  night  shelter  were  fat, 
well-nourished  young  loafers  who  wouldn’t  work. 
That  is  not  my  statement,  but  the  report  of  the 
doctor  who  saw  them  stripped,  taking  their  bath. 
The  bath  and  the  investigation  presently  decreased 
their  numbers,  until  in  a week  scarcely  anything 
was  left  of  the  “pi'oblem  ” that  had  bothered  us  so. 

Four  days  I was  on  the  way  to'  Philadelphia,  liv- 
ing on  apples  and  an  occasional  meal  earned  by 


76 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


doing  odd  jobs.  At  night  I slept  in  lonely  barns 
that  nearly  always  had  a board  ripped  out  — the 
tramps’  door.  I tried  to  avoid  the  gang,  but  I was 
not  always  successful.  I remember  still  with  a 
shudder  an  instance  of  that  kind.  I was  burrowing 
in  a haymow,  thinking  myself  alone.  In  the  night 
a big  storm  came  up.  The  thunder  shook  the  old 
barn,  and  I sat  up  wondering  if  it  would  be  blown 
away.  A fierce  lightning-flash  filled  it  with  a 
ghostly  light,  and  showed  me  within  arm’s  length  a 
white  and  scared  face  with  eyes  starting  from  their 
sockets  at  the  sight  of  me.  The  next  moment  all 
was  black  darkness  again.  My  heart  stood  still  for 
what  seemed  the  longest  moment  of  my  life.  Then 
there  came  out  of  the  darkness  a quaking  voice 
asking,  “ Is  anybody  there  ? ” For  once  I was  glad 
to  have  a live  tramp  about.  I really  thought  it  was 
a ghost. 

The  last  few  miles  to  Camden  I rode  in  a cattle- 
car,  arriving  there  at  night,  much  the  worse  for  the 
wear  of  it  on  my  linen  duster.  In  the  freight-yard 
I was  picked  up  by  a good-hearted  police  captain 
who  took  me  to  his  station,  made  me  tell  him  my 
story,  and  gave  me  a bed  in  an  unused  cell,  the  door 
of  which  he  took  the  precaution  to  lock  on  the  out- 
side. But  I did  not  mind.  Rather  that  a hundred 
times  than  the  pig-sty  in  the  New  York  station- 
house.  In  the  morning  he  gave  me  breakfast  and 


I GO  TO  WAR 


77 


money  to  get  my  boots  blacked  and  to  pay  my  fare 
across  the  Delaware.  And  so  my  homeless  wander- 
ings came,  for  the  time  being,  to  an  end.  For  in 
Philadelphia  I found  in  the  Danish  Consul, 
Ferdinand  Myhlertz,  and  his  dear  wife,  friends 
indeed  as  in  need.  The  City  of  Brotherly  Love 
found  heart  and  time  to  welcome  the  wanderer, 
though  at  the  time  it  was  torn  up  by  the  hottest 
kind  of  fight  over  the  question  whether  or  not  to 
disfigure  the  beautiful  square  at  Broad  and  Market 
streets  by  putting  the  new  municipal  building 
there. 

When,  after  two  weeks’  rest  with  my  friends, 
they  sent  me  on  my  way  to  an  old  schoolmate  in 
Jamestown,  N.Y.,  clothed  and  in  my  right  mind,  I 
was  none  the  worse  for  my  first  lesson  in  swimming 
against  the  current,  and  quite  sure  that  next  time  I 
should  be  able  to  breast  it.  Hope  springs  eternal 
at  twenty-one.  I had  many  a weary  stretch  ahead 
before  I was  to  make  port.  But  with  youth  and 
courage  as  the  equipment,  one  should  win  almost 
any  fight. 


CHAPTER  IV 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 

Winter  came  quickly  up  by  the  northern  lakes, 
but  it  had  no  terror  for  me.  For  once  I had  shelter 
and  enough  to  eat.  It  found  me  felling  trees  on 
Swede  Hill,  where  a considerable  settlement  of 
Scandinavians  was  growing  up.  I had  tried 
my  hand  at  making  cradles  in  a furniture-shop,  but 
at  two  dollars  and  forty  cents  per  dozen  there  was 
not  much  profit  in  it.  So  I took  to  the  woods  and 
learned  to  swing  an  axe  in  the  American  fashion 
that  had  charmed  me  so  at  Brady’s  Bend.  I liked 
it  much  better,  anyway,  than  being  in  the  house 
winter  and  summer.  It  is  well  that  we  are 
fashioned  that  way,  some  for  indoors  and  some  for 
outdoors,  for  so  the  work  of  the  world  is  all  done ; 
but  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  indoor  folk 
take  too  big  a share  of  credit  to  themselves,  as 
though  there  were  special  virtue  in  that,  though  I 
think  that  the  reverse  is  the  case.  At  least  it  seems 
more  natural  to  want  to  be  out  in  the  open  where 
the  sun  shines  and  the  winds  blow.  When  I was 
not  chopping  wood  I was  helping  with  the  ice  har- 

78 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


79 


vesc  on  the  lake  or  repairing  the  steamer  that  ran 
in  summer  between  Jamestown  and  Mayville.  My 
home  was  in  Dexterville,  a mile  or  so  out  of  town, 
where  there  lived  a Danish  family,  the  Romers,  at 
whose  home  I was  made  welcome.  The  friendship 
which  grew  up  between  us  has  endured  through  life 
and  been  to  me  a treasure.  Gentler  and  truer 
hearts  than  those  of  Nicholas  and  John  Romer 
there  are  not  many. 

I shared  my  room  with  another  countryman, 
Anthony  Ronne,  a young  axe-maker,  who,  like  my- 
self, was  in  hard  luck.  The  axe-factory  had  burned 
down,  and,  with  no  work  in  sight,  the  outlook  for 
him  was  not  exactly  bright.  He  had  not  my  way 
of  laughing  it  off,  but  was  rather  disposed  to  see  the 
serious  side  of  it.  Probably  that  was  the  reason  we 
took  to  each  other;  the  balance  was  restored  so. 
Maybe  he  sobered  me  down  somewhat.  If  any  one 
assumes  that  in  my  role  of  unhappy  lover  I went 
about  glooming  and  glowering  on  mankind,  he 
makes  a big  mistake.  Besides,  I had  not  the  least 
notion  of  accepting  that  role  as  permanent.  I was 
out  to  twist  the  wheel  of  fortune  my  way  when  I 
could  get  my  hands  upon  it.  I never  doubted  that 
I should  do  that  sooner  or  later,  if  only  I kept  doing 
things.  That  Elizabeth  should  ever  marry  anybody 
but  me  was  preposterously  impossible,  no  matter 
what  she  or  anybody  said. 


So 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Was  this  madness?  They  half  thought  so  at 
home  when  they  caught  a glimpse  of  it  in  my 
letters.  Not  at  all.  It  was  conviction  — the  con- 
viction that  shapes  events  and  the  world  to  its  ends. 
I know  what  I am  talking  about.  If  any  one 
doubts  it,  and  thinks  his  a worse  case  than  mine, 
let  him  try  my  plan.  If  he  cannot  muster  up  cour- 
age to  do  it,  it  is  the  best  proof  in  the  world  that 
she  was  right  in  refusing  him. 

To  return  to  my  chum  ; he,  on  his  part,  rose  to 
the  height  even  of  “ going  out,”  but  not  with  me. 
There  was  a physical  obstacle  to  that.  We  had  but 
one  coat  between  us,  a turned  black  kersey,  worn 
very  smooth  and  shiny  also  on  the  wrong  side, 
which  I had  bought  of  a second-hand  dealer  in 
Philadelphia  for  a dollar.  It  was  our  full-dress,  and 
we  took  turns  arraying  ourselves  in  it  for  the 
Dexterville  weekly  parties.  These  gatherings  inter- 
ested me  chiefly  as  outbreaks  of  the  peculiar  Ameri- 
can humor  that  was  very  taking  to  me,  in  and  out 
of  the  newspapers.  Dancing  being  tabooed  as 
immoral  and  contaminating,  the  young  people  had 
recourse  to  particularly  energetic  kissing  games, 
which  more  than  made  up  for  their  deprivation  on 
the  other  score.  It  was  all  very  harmless  and  very 
funny,  and  the  winter  wore  away  pleasantly  enough 
in  spite  of  hard  luck  and  hard  work  when  there 
was  any 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


8l 


With  the  early  thaw  came  change.  My  friends 
moved  away  to  Buffalo,  and  I was  left  for  two 
months  the  sole  occupant  of  the  Romer  homestead. 
My  last  job  gave  out  about  that  time,  and  a wheel- 
barrow express  which  I established  between  Dexter- 
ville  and  the  steamboat  landing  on  the  lake  refused 
to  prosper.  The  idea  was  good  enough,  but  I was 
ahead  of  my  time : travel  on  the  lake  had  not  yet 
begun.  With  my  field  thus  narrowed  down,  I fell 
back  on  my  gun  and  some  old  rat-traps  I found  in 
the  woodshed.  I became  a hunter  and  trapper. 
Right  below  me  was  the  glen  through  which  the 
creek  ran  on  its  way  to  the  sawmills  and  furniture- 
shops  of  Jamestown.  It  was  full  of  musk-rats  that 
burrowed  in  its  banks  between  the  roots  of  dead 
hemlocks  and  pines.  There  I set  my  traps  and 
baited  them  with  carrots  and  turnips.  The  man- 
ner of  it  was  simple  enough.  I set  the  trap  on  the 
bottom  of  the  creek  and  hung  the  bait  on  a stick 
projecting  from  the  bank  over  it,  so  that  to  get  at 
it  the  rat  had  to  step  on  the  trap.  I caught  lots  of 
them.  Their  skins  brought  twenty  cents  apiece  in 
the  town,  so  that  I was  really  quite  independent. 
I made  often  as  much  as  a dollar  overniorht  with 

O 

my  traps,  and  then  had  the  whole  day  to  myself 
in  the  hills,  where  I waylaid  many  a fat  rabbit  or 
squirrel  and  an  occasional  bird. 

The  one  thing  that  marred  my  enjoyment  of  this 


82 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


life  of  freedom  was  my  vain  struggle  to  master  the 
art  of  cookery  in  its  elements.  To  properly  get  the 
hang  of  that,  and  of  housekeeping  in  general,  two 
heads  are  needed,  as  I have  found  out  since  — one  of 
them  with  curls  and  long  eyelashes.  Then  it  is  fine 


“There  I set  my  traps.” 

fun ; but  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  tackle  that  job 
alone.  Goodness  knows  I tried  hard  enough.  I re- 
member the  first  omelet  I made.  I was  bound  to 
get  it  good.  So  I made  a muster-roll  of  all  the  good 
things  Mrs.  Romer  had  left  in  the  house,  and  put 
them  all  in.  Eggs  and  strawberry  jam  and  raisins 
and  apple-sauce,  and  some  sliced  bacon  — the  way 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


33 


I had  seen  mother  do  with  “egg  pancakes.”  But 
though  I seasoned  it  liberally  with  baking-powder 
to  make  it  rise,  it  did  not  rise.  It  was  dreadfully 
heavy  and  discouraging,  and  not  even  the  straw- 
berry jam  had  power  to  redeem  it.  To  tell  the 
truth,  it  was  not  a good  omelet.  It  was  hardly  fit 
to  eat.  The  jam  came  out  to  better  advantage  in 
the  sago  I boiled,  but  there  was  too  much  of  it.  It 
was  only  a fruit-jar  full,  but  I never  saw  anything 
swell  so.  It  boiled  out  of  the  pot  and  into  another 
and  another,  while  I kept  pouring  on  water  until 
nearly  every  jar  in  the  house  was  full  of  sago  that 
stood  around  until  moss  grew  on  it  with  age. 
There  is  much  contrariness  in  cooking.  When  I 
tapped  my  maples  with  the  rest  — there  were  two 
big  trees  in  front  of  the  house  — and  tried  to  make 
sugar,  I was  prepared  to  see  the  sap  boil  away ; but 
when  I had  labored  a whole  day  and  burned  half  a 
cord  of  wood,  and  had  for  my  trouble  half  a tea- 
cupful of  sugar,  which  made  me  sick  into  the 
bargain,  I concluded  that  that  game  was  not  worth 
the  candle,  and  gave  up  my  plans  of  becoming  a 
sugar-planter  on  a larger  scale. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  I made  my  first  appear- 
ance on  the  lecture  platform.  There  was  a Scan- 
dinavian society  in  Jamestown,  composed  chiefly  of 
workingmen  whose  fight  with  life  had  left  them 
little  enough  time  for  schooling.  They  were  anx- 


84  the  making  of  an  AMERICAN 

ious  to  learn,  however,  and  as  I was  set  on  teaching 
where  I saw  the  chance,  the  thing  came  of  itself. 
I had  been  mightily  interested  in  the  Frenchman 
Figuier’s  account  of  the  formation  and  development 
of  the  earth,  and  took  that  for  my  topic.  Twice  a 
week,  when  I had  set  my  traps  in  the  glen,  I went 
to  town  and  talked  astronomy  and  geology  to  inter- 
ested audiences  that  gazed  terror  stricken  at  the 
loathsome  saurians  and  the  damnable  pterodactyl 
which  I sketched  on  the  blackboard.  Well  they 
might.  I spared  them  no  gruesome  detail,  and  I 
never  could  draw,  anyhow.  However,  I rescued 
them  from  those  beasts  in  season,  and  together  we 
hauled  the  earth  through  age-long  showers  of  molten 
metal  into  the  sunlight  of  our  day.  I sometimes 
carried  home  as  much  as  two  or  three  dollars,  after 
paying  for  gas  and  hall,  with  the  tickets  ten  cents 
apiece,  and  I saw  wealth  and  fame  ahead  of  me, 
when  sudden  wreck  came  to  my  hopes  and  my 
career  as  a lecturer. 

It  was  all  because,  having  got  the  earth  properly 
constructed  and  set  up,  as  it  were,  I undertook  to 
explain  about  latitude  and  longitude.  Figures  came 
in  there,  and  I was  never  strong  at  mathematics. 
My  education  in  that  branch  had  run  into  a snag 
about  the  middle  of  the  little  multiplication  table. 
A boy  from  the  “plebs”  school  challenged  me  to 
fight,  as  I was  making  my  way  to  recitation,  trying 


working  and  wandering  85 

to  learn  the  table  by  heart.  I broke  off  in  the 
middle  of  the  sixes  to  wallop  him,  and  never  got 
any  farther.  The  class  went  on  that  day  without 
me,  and  I never  overtook  it.  I made  but  little 
effort.  In  the  Latin  School,  which  rather  prided 
itself  upon  being  free  from  the  commercial  taint, 
mathematics  was  held  to  be  in  the  nature  of  an 
intrusion,  and  it  was  a sort  of  good  mark  for  a boy 
that  he  did  not  take  to  it,  if  at  the  same  time  he 
showed  aptitude  for  language.  So  I was  left  to 
deplore  with  Marjorie  Fleming  to  the  end  of  my 
days  the  inherent  viciousness  of  sevens  and  eights, 
as  “more  than  human  nature  can  endure.”  It  is 
one  of  the  ironies  of  life  that  I should  have  had  to 
take  up  work  into  vdiich  the  study  of  statistics 
enters  largely.  But  the  powers  that  set  me  the 
task  provided  a fitter  back  than  mine  for  that 
burden.  As  I explained  years  ago  in  the  preface 
to  “ How  the  Other  Half  Lives,”  the  patient  friend- 
ship of  Dr.  Roger  S.  Tracy,  the  learned  statistician 
of  the  Health  Department,  has  smoothed  the  rebeL 
lions  kinks  out  of  death-rates  and  population  statis- 
tics, as  of  so  many  other  knotty  problems  which  we 
have  worked  out  together. 

But  I am  getting  out  of  my  longitude,  as  I did 
then.  When  I had  groped  about  long  enough  try- 
ing to  make  my  audience  understand  what  I only 
half  understood  myself,  an  old  sea-captain  arose  in 


86 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


his  place  and  said  that  any  man  who  would  make 
a mess  of  so  simple  a thing  as  latitude  and  longi- 
tude evidently  knew  nothing  at  all.  It  happened 
to  be  the  one  thing  he  knew  about.  Popular  favor 
is  a fickle  thing.  The  audience  that  had  but  now 
been  applauding  my  efforts  to  organize  the  earth 
took  his  word  for  it  without  waiting  for  an  expla- 
nation and  went  out  in  a body,  scouting  even  the 
ichthyosaurus  as  a prehistoric  fake. 

I made  a valiant  effort  to  stem  the  tide,  but  came 
to  worse  grief  than  before.  My  only  listener  was  a 
Swedish  blacksmith  who  had  attended  the  creation 
and  development  of  the  earth  from  the  beginning 
with  unshaken  faith,  though  he  was  a member  of 
the  Lutheran  church,  with  the  pastor  and  deacons 
of  which  I had  waged  a bitter  newspaper  war  over 
the  “ sin  ” of  dancing.  But  when  I said,  on  the 
authority  of  Figuier,  that  an  English  man-of-war 
had  once  during  an  earthquake  been  thrown  into 
the  city  of  Callao  and  through  the  roof  of  a church, 
between  the  walls  of  which  it  remained  standing 
upright  on  its  keel,  he  got  up  and  went  too.  He 
circulated  the  story  in  town  with  various  embellish- 
ments. The  deacons  aforesaid  seized  upon  it  as 
welcome  ammunition,  construing  it  into  an  insult  to 
the  church,  and  there  was  an  end  to  my  lecturing. 

The  warm  spring  weather,  together  with  these 
disappointments,  bred  in  me  the  desire  to  roam. 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


37 


I packed  away  my  traps  and  started  for  Buffalo 
with  my  grip,  walking  along  the  lake.  It  set  in 
with  a drizzling  rain,  and  I was  soon  wet  to  the 
skin.  Where  the  Chautauqua  summer  school 
grounds  are  now  I surprised  a flock  of  wild  ducks 
near  the  shore,  and  was  lucky  enough  to  wound 
one  with  my  revolver.  But  the  wind,  carried  it 
out  of  my  reach,  and  I trudged  on  supperless, 
through  Mayville,  where  the  lights  were  beginning 
to  shine  in  the  windows.  Not  one  of  them  was 
for  me.  All  my  money  had  gone  to  pay  back  debts 
to  my  Dexterville  landlady.  The  Danes  had  a 
good  name  in  Jamestown,  and  we  were  all  very 
jealous  of  it.  We  would  have  starved,  every  one 
of  us,  rather  than  leave  unpaid  debts  behind.  As 
Mrs.  Ben  Wah  many  years  after  put  it  to  me,  “ it 
is  no  disgrace  to  be  poor,  but  it  is  sometimes  very 
inconvenient.”  I found  it  so  when,  worn  out  with 
walking,  I crawled  into  an  abandoned  barn  half- 
way to  Westfield  and  dug  down  in  the  hay,  wet 
through  and  hungry  as  a bear.  It  stormed  and 
rained  all  night,  and  a rat  or  a squirrel  fell  from  the 
roof  on  my  face.  It  felt  like  a big  sprawling  hand, 
and  woke  me  up  in  a great  fright. 

The  sun  was  shining  upon  a peaceful  Sabbath 
when  I crawled  out  of  my  hole  and  saw  to  my  dis- 
may that  I had  been  sleeping  in  a pile  of  old  hay 
seed  that  had  worked  through  and  through  my  wet 


88 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


clothes  until  I was  a sight.  An  hours  patient 
plucking  and  a bath  in  a near-by  pond  restored  me 
to  something  like  human  shape,  and  I held  my 
entry  into  Westfield.  The  people  were  going  to 
church  in  their  holiday  clothes,  and  eyed  the  un- 
couth stranger  askance.  I travelled  the  whole 
length  of  the  town  thinking  what  to  do  next.  My 
stomach  decided  for  me.  There  was  a house 
standing  in  a pretty  garden  with  two  little  cast- 
iron  negro  boys  for  hitching-posts  at  the  steps. 
I rang  the  bell,  and  to  an  old  lady  who  opened  the 
door  1 offered  to  chop  wood,  fetch  water,  or  do 
anything  there  was  to  do  in  exchange  for  break- 
fast. She  went  in  and  brought  out  her  husband, 
who  looked  me  over  and  said  that  if  I was  willing 
to  do  his  chores  I need  go  no  farther.  I was  tired 
and  famished,  and  the  place  was  so  restful  that  I 
said  yes  at  once.  In  ten  minutes  I was  eating  my 
breakfast  in  the  kitchen,  duly  installed  as  Dr. 
Spencer’s  hired  man. 

I think  of  the  month  I spent  in  the  doctor’s  house 
with  mingled  feelings  of  exasperation  and  amuse- 
ment. If  I had  not  learned  to  milk  a cow  there, 
probably  Octavia  Ely  would  never  have  come  into 
my  life,  horrid  nightmare  that  she  was.  Octavia 
Ely  was  a Jersey  cow  with  a brass  tag  in  her  ear, 
whose  attacks  upon  the  domestic  peace  of  my  house 
in  after  years  even  now  fill  me  with  rage.  In  the 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


89 


twelve  months  of  her  sojourn  with  us  she  had 
fifteen  different  kinds  of  disease,  every  one  of 
which  advertised  itself  by  the  stopping  of  her  milk. 
When  she  had  none,  she  never  once  gave  down  the 
milk  without  grudging  it.  With  three  of  us  to 
hold  her  legs  and  tail  lest  she  step  in  the  pail  or 
switch  our  ears,  she  would  reach  back  and  eat  the 
vest  off  my  back  where  I sat  milking  hen  But 
she  does  not  belong  in  this  story,  thank  goodness ! 
If  she  had  never  belonged  to  me  or  mine,  I should 
be  a better  man  to-day ; she  provoked  me  so. 
However,  I cannot  reasonably  lay  the  blame  for 
her  on  the  doctor.  His  cow  was  friendly  enough. 
It  was  Sport,  the  old  dog,  that  made  the  heaviest 
and  at  the  same  time  a most  ludicrous  item  in  my 
duties  as  hired  man.  Long  past  the  age  of  sport 
of  any  kind,  he  spent  his  decadent  years  in  a state 
of  abject  fear  of  thunder  and  lightning.  If  only 
a cloud  darkened  the  sun.  Sport  kept  up  a ceaseless 
pilgrimage  between  his  corner  and . the  kitchen 
door  to  observe  the  sky,  sighing  most  grievously 
at  the  outlook.  At  the  first  distant  rumble  — this 
was  in  the  month  of  May,  when  it  thundered  almost 
every  day  — he  became  perfectly  rigid  with  terror. 
It  was  my  duty  then  to  carry  him  down  into  the 
cellar  and  shut  him  in  the  wood-box,  where  he 
was  out  of  the  way  of  it  all.  Poor  Sport  laid  his 
head  against  my  shoulder  and  wept  great  tears  that 


90 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


wrung  peals  of  laughter  from  me  and  from  the  boys 
who  always  hung  around  to  see  the  show. 

One  of  these  was  just  beginning  the  struggle 
with  his  Homer,  which  I knew  by  heart  almost, 
and  it  may  have  been  the  discovery  that  1 was 
able  to  steer  him  through  it  between  chores,  as 
well  as  to  teach  him  some  tricks  of  fencing,  that 
helped  make  the  doctor  anxious  that  I should 
promise  to  stay  with  him  always.  He  would  make 
me  rich,  he  said.  But  other  ambitions  than  to  milk 
cows  and  plant  garden  truck  were  stirring  in  me. 
To  be  rich  was  never  among  them.  I had  begun 
to  write  essays  for  the  magazines,  choosing  for  my 
topic,  for  want  of  any  other,  the  maltreatment  of 
Denmark  by  Prussia,  which  rankled  fresh  in  my 
memory,  and  the  duty  of  all  Scandinavians  to  rise 
up  and  avenge  it.  The  Scandinavians  would  not 
listen  when  I wrote  in  Danish,  and  my  English 
outpourings  never  reached  the  publishers.  I dis- 
covered that  I lacked  words  — they  didn’t  pour; 
at  which,  in  general  discontentment  with  myself 
and  all  things,  I pulled  up  stakes  and  went  to 
Buffalo.  Only,  this  time  I rode  in  a railway  train, 
with  money  in  my  pocket. 

For  all  that,  Buffalo  received  me  with  no  more 
circumstance  than  it  had  done  when  I came  there 
penniless,  on  the  way  to  the  war,  the  year  before. 
I piled  boards  in  a lumber-yard  until  I picked  a 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


91 


quarrel  with  a tyrant  foreman  on  behalf  of  a lot  of 
green  Germans  whom  he  maltreated  most  shame- 
fully. Then  I was  put  out.  A cabinet-maker  in 
the  “ Beehive,”  a factory  building  out  in  Niagara 
Street,  hired  me  next  to  make  bedsteads,  and  took 
me  to  board  with  him.  In  the  top  story  of  the 
factory  we  fitted  up  a bedroom  that  was  just  large 
enough  for  one  sitting  and  two  standing,  so  long 
as  the  door  was  not  opened ; then  one  of  the  two 
had  to  get  out.  It  mattered  little,  for  the  only 
visitor  I had  was  a half-elderly  countryman  of  mine 
whom  they  had  worked  so  hard  in  his  childhood 
that  he  had  never  had  a chance  to  go  to  school. 
We  two  labored  together  by  my  little  lamp,  and 
it  was  great  fun  to  see  him  who  had  never  known 
how  to  read  and  write  his  own  Danish  make  long 
strides  in  the  strange  tongue  he  spoke  so  singularly 
well.  When  we  were  both  tired  out,  we  would 
climb  up  on  the  roof  and  lie  there  and  look  out 
over  the  lake  and  the  city  where  the  myriad  lights 
were  shining,  and  talk  of  the  old  home  and  old 
times. 

Sometimes  the  new  would  crowd  them  out  in 
spite  of  all.  I remember  that  Fourth  of  July  when 
the  salute  from  P"ort  Porter  woke  me  up  at  sunrise 
and  fired  me  with  sudden  patriotic  ardor.  I jumped 
out  of  bed  and  grabbed  my  revolver.  There  was  a 
pile  of  packing-boxes  in  the  yard  below,  and,  know 


92 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


ing  that  there  was  no  one  around  whom  I could 
hurt,  I made  it  my  target  and  fired  away  all  my 
ammunition  at  it.  It  made  a fine  racket,  and  I was 
happy.  A couple  of  days  later,  when  I was  down 
in  the  yard,  it  occurred  to  me  to  look  at  the  boxes  to 
ascertain  what  kind  of  a score  I had  made.  A very 
good  one.  All  the  bullets  had  hit.  The  boxes 
looked  like  so  many  sieves.  Incidentally  I found 
out  that  they  were  not  empty,  as  I had  supposed, 
but  filled  with  glass  fruit-jars. 

I had  eventually  to  give  that  job  up  also,  because 
my  boss  was  “ bad  pay.”  He  was  pretty  much  all 
bad,  I guess.  I do  think  his  house  was  the  most 
disorderly  one  I have  ever  come  across.  Seven  ill- 
favored  children  clamored  about  the  table,  fighting 
with  their  even  more  ill-favored  mother.  She  used 
to  single  out  the  one  she  wished  to  address  by 
slamming  a handful  of  string-beans,  or  whatever 
greens  might  be  at  hand,  across  the  table  at  him. 
The  youngster  would  fire  it  back,  and  so  they  were 
en  rapport  with  each  other.  The  father  was  seldom 
sober  at  meals.  When  he  “felt  funny,”  he  would 
stealthily  pour  a glass  of  water  down  the  nearest 
child’s  back  and  then  sit  and  chuckle  over  the 
havoc  he  had  wrought.  There  followed  a long 
and  woful  wail  and  an  instant  explosion  from  the 
mother  in  this  wise.  I can  hear  her  now.  It  was 
always  the  same  : — 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


93 


“ Gott-himmel-donnerwetter-noch-emal-ich-will-de- 
mal-hole-du-spitzbub-eselskerl  - wart’-  nur-ich  - schlag- 
de-noch-todt-potz-sacrement ! ” 

Whereupon,  from  sheer  exhaustion  all  round,  there 
was  peace  for  at  least  five  minutes. 

Which  reminds  me  of  meeting  Adler,  my  chum 
from  Brady’s  Bend,  in  Buffalo.  He  had  come  up 
to  get  a $1500  place,  as  he  informed  me.  That 
would  about  satisfy  him.  That  such  jobs  were 
waiting  by  the  score  for  an  educated  German  in 
this  barbarous  land  he  never  doubted  for  a moment. 
In  the  end  he  went  to  work  in  a rolling-mill  at  a 
dollar  a day.  Adler  was  ever  a stickler  for  etiquette. 
In  Brady’s  Bend  we  had  very  little  of  it.  At  meal- 
times a flock  of  chickens  used  to  come  into  the 
summer  kitchen  where  we  ate,  and  forage  around, 
to  Adler’s  great  disgust.  One  day  they  deliberately 
flew  up  on  the  table,  and  fell  to  fighting  with  the 
boarders  for  the  food.  A big  Shanghai  rooster  trod 
in  the  butter  and  tracked  it  over  the  table.  At  the 
sight  Adler’s  rage  knew  no  bounds.  Seizing  a half- 
loaf of  bread,  he  aimed  it  at  the  rooster  and  felled 
him  in  his  tracks.  The  flock  of  fowl  flew  squawk- 
ing out  of  the  door.  The  women  screamed,  and  the 
men  howled  with  laughter.  Adler  flourished  an- 
other loaf  and  vowed  vengeance  upon  bird  or  beast 
that  did  not  let  the  butter  alone. 

I have  been  often  enough  out  of  patience  with 


94 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  ways  of  the  labor  men  which  seem  to  me  to  be 
the  greatest  hindrance  to  the  success  of  their  cause ; 
but  I am  not  in  danger  of  forgetting  the  other  side 
which  makes  that  cause  — if  for  no  other  reason, 
because  of  an  experience  I had  in  Buffalo  that  year. 
In  a planing-mill  in  which  I had  found  employment 
I contracted  with  the  boss  to  plane  doors,  sandpaper 
them,  and  plug  knot-holes  at  fifteen  cents  a door. 
It  was  his  own  offer,  and  I did  the  work  well,  better 
than  it  had  been  done  before,  so  he  said  himself. 
But  when  he  found  at  the  end  of  the  week  that  I 
had  made  $15  where  my  slow-coach  predeces- 
sor had  made  only  ten,  he  cut  the  price  down  to 
twelve  cents.  I objected,  but  in  the  end  swallowed 
my  anger  and,  by  putting  on  extra  steam  and  work- 
ing overtime,  made  ^16  the  next  week.  The  boss 
examined  the  work  very  carefully,  said  it  was 
good,  paid  my  wages,  and  cut  down  the  price  to 
ten  cents.  He  did  not  want  his  men  to  make 
over  $10  a week,  he  said;  it  was  not  good  for 
them.  I quit  then,  after  giving  him  my  opinion  of 
him  and  of  the  chances  of  his  shop.  I do  not  know 
where  he  may  be  now,  but  wherever  he  is,  I will 
warrant  that  my  prediction  came  true.  There  is  in 
Danish  an  old  proverb,  “ Falsk  slaar  sin  egen  Herre 
paa  Hals,”  which  is  to  say  that  chickens  come  home 
to  roost,  and  that  right  in  the  end  does  prevail  over 
might.  The  Lord  Chief  Justice  over  all  is  not  to 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


95 


be  tricked.  If  the  labor  men  will  only  remember 
that,  and  devote,  let  us  say,  as  much  time  to  their 
duties  as  to  fighting  for  their  rights,  they  will  get 
them  sooner.  Which  is  not  saying  that  there  is  not 
a time  to  strike.  Witness  my  experience  with  the 
planing-mill  man. 

I struck  not  only  against  him,^  but  against  the 
whole  city  of  Buffalo.  I shook  the  dust  of  it  from 
my  feet  and  went  out  to  work  with  a gang  on  a 
new  railroad  then  being  built  through  Cattaraugus 
County — the  Buffalo  and  Washington,  I think. 
Near  a village  called  Coonville  our  job  was  cut  out 
for  us.  We  were  twenty  in  the  gang,  and  we  were 
to  build  the  line  across  an  old  dry  river-bed  at  that 
point.  In  the  middle  of  the  river  there  had  once 
been  a forest-clad  island.  This  we  attacked  with 
pickaxe  and  spade  and  carried  it  away  piecemeal 
in  our  wheelbarrows.  It  fell  in  with  the  hottest 
weather  of  the  year.  Down  in  the  hollow  where 
no  wind  blew  it  was  utterly  unbearable.  I had 
never  done  such  work  before,  and  was  not  built 
for  it.  I did  my  best  to  keep  up  with  the  gang, 
but  my  chest  heaved  and  my  heart  beat  as  though 
it  would  burst.  There  were  nineteen  Irishmen  in 
the  gang  — big,  rough  fellows  who  had  picked  me 
out,  as  the  only  “ Dutchman,”  as  the  butt  for  their 
coarse  jokes ; but  when  they  saw  that  the  work  was 
plainly  too  much  for  me,  the  other  side  of  this  curi- 


96 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


ously  contradictory,  mischief-loving,  and  big-hearted 
people  came  out.  They  invented  a thousand  excuses 
to  get  me  out  of  the  line.  Water  was  certainly  not 
their  daily  diet,  but  they  fell  victims,  one  and  all, 
to  the  most  ravening  thirst,  which  required  the 
despatching  of  me  every  hour  to  the  spring  a 
quarter  of  a mile  away  to  fill  the  pail.  If  they 
could  not  empty  it  quickly  enough,  they  managed 
to  upset  it,  and,  to  cover  up  the  fraud,  cursed 
each  other  roundly  for  their  clumsiness.  Between 
whiles  they  worried  me  as  ever  with  their  horse- 
play ; but  I had  seen  the  real  man  behind  it,  and 
they  might  have  called  me  Bismarck,  had  they 
chosen,  without  offence. 

The  heat,  the  work,  and  the  slave-driver  of  a fore- 
man were  too  much  for  them  even,  and  before  the 
end  of  a week  the  gang  was  broken  and  scattered 
wide.  I was  on  the  road  again  looking  for  work 
on  a farm.  It  was  not  to  be  had.  Perhaps  I did 
not  try  very  hard.  Sunday  morning  found  me 
spending  my  last  quarter  for  breakfast  in  an  inn 
at  Lime  Lake.  When  I had  eaten,  I went  out  in 
the  fields  and  sat  with  my  back  against  a tree,  and 
listened  to  the  church-bells  that  were  ringing  also, 
I knew,  in  my  home  four  thousand  miles  away. 
I saw  the  venerable  Domkirke,  my  father’s  gray 
head  in  his  pew,  and  Her,  young  and  innocent,  in 
the  women’s  seats  across  the  aisle.  I heard  the  old 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


97 


pastor’s  voice  in  the  solemn  calm,  and  my  tears  fell 
upon  her  picture  that  had  called  up  the  vision.  It 
was  as  if  a voice  spoke  to  me  and  said  to  get  up 
and  be  a man  ; that  if  I wanted  to  win  Elizabeth, 
to  work  for  her  was  the  way,  and  not  idling  my 
days  away  on  the 
road.  And  I got 
right  up,  and,  set- 
ting my  face  to- 
ward Buffalo,  went 
by  the  shortest  cut 
back  to  my  work. 

I walked  day 
and  night,  pur- 
sued in  the  dark 
by  a hundred 
skulking  curs  that 
lurked  behind 
trees  until  I came 
abreast  of  them 
and  then  sallied 
out  to  challenge  my  progress.  I stoned  them  and 
went  on.  Monday’s  setting  sun  saw  me  outside 
Buffalo,  tired,  but  with  a new  purpose.  I had  walked 
fifty  miles  without  stopping  or  eating.  I slept  under 
a shed  that  night,  and  the  very  next  day  found 
work  at  good  wages  on  some  steamers  the  Erie 
Railroad  was  then  building  for  the  Lake  Superior 


Our  Old  Pastor. 


H 


98 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


trade.  With  intervals  of  other  employment  when 
for  any  reason  work  in  the  ship-yard  was  slack,  I 
kept  that  up  all  winter,  and  became  quite  opulent, 
even  to  the  extent  of  buying  a new  suit  of  clothes, 
the  first  I had  had  since  I landed.  I paid  off  all 
my  debts,  and  quarrelled  with  all  my  friends  about 
religion.  I never  had  any  patience  with  a person 
who  says  “ there  is  no  God.”  The  man  is  a fool, 
and  therefore  cannot  be  reasoned  with.  But  in 
those  days  I was  set  on  converting  him,  as  my 
viking  forefathers  did  when  from  heathen  they 
became  Christians  — by  fire  and  sword  if  need  be. 
I smote  the  infidels  about  me  hip  and  thigh,  but 
there  were  a good  many  of  them,  and  they  kept 
springing  up,  to  my  great  amazement.  Probably 
the  constant  warfare  imparted  a tinge  of  fierceness 
to  that  whole  period  of  my  life,  for  I remember  that 
one  of  my  employers,  a Roman  Catholic  builder, 
discharged  me  for  disagreeing  with  him  about  the 
saints,  telling  me  that  I was  “ too  blamed  indepen- 
dent, anyhow.”  I suspect  I must  have  been  a 
rather  unlovely  customer,  take  it  all  together. 
Still,  every  once  in  a while  it  boils  up  in  me  yet 
against  the  discretion  that  has  come  with  the  years, 
and  I want  to  slam  in  after  the  old  fashion.  Seems 
to  me  we  are  in  danger  of  growing  stale  with  all 
our  soft  speeches  nowadays. 

Things  enough  happened  to  take  down  my  self* 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


99 


esteem  a good  man}^  P^gs-  It  was  about  this  time 
I made  up  my  mind  to  go  into  the  newspaper  busi- 
ness. It  seemed  to  me  that  a reporters  was  the 
highest  and  noblest  of  all  callings;  no  one  could 
sift  wrong  from  right  as  he,  and 
punish  the  wrong.  In  that  I was 
right.  I have  not  changed  my 
opinion  on  that  point  one  whit, 
and  I am  sure  I never  shall.  The 
power  of  fact  is  the  mightiest 
lever  of  this  or  of  any  day.  The 
reporter  has  his  hand  upon  it, 
and  it  is  his  grievous  fault  if  he 
does  not  use  it  well.  I thought 
I would  make  a good  reporter. 

My  father  had  edited  our  local 
newspaper,  and  such  little  help 
as  I had  been  of  to  him  had  given  me  a taste  for 


When  I worked  in  the 
Buffalo  Ship-yard. 


the  business.  Being  of  that  mind,  I went  to  the 
Courier  0^0,^  one  morning  and  asked  for  the  editor. 
He  was  not  in.  Apparently  nobody  was.  I wan- 
dered through  room  after  room,  all  empty,  till  at  last 
I came  to  one  in  which  sat  a man  with  a paste-pot 
and  a pair  of  long  shears.  This  must  be  the  editor; 
he  had  the  implements  of  his  trade.  I told  him  my 
errand  while  he  clipped  away. 

“What  is  ic  you  want  ” he  asked,  when  I had 
ceased  speaking  and  waited  for  an  answer. 


100 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


“Work,”  I said. 

“Work!”  said  he,  waving  me  haughtily  away 
with  the  shears ; “ we  don’t  work  here.  This  is  a 
newspaper  office.” 

I went,  abashed.  I tried  the  Express  next. 
This  time  I had  the  editor  pointed  out  to  me.  He 
was  just  coming  through  the  business  office.  At 
the  door  I stopped  him  and  preferred  my  request. 
He  looked  me  over,  a lad  fresh  from  the  shipyard, 
with  horny  hands  and  a rough  coat,  and  asked : — 

“ What  are  you  } ” 

“ A carpenter,”  I said. 

The  man  turned  upon  his  heel  with  a loud,  rasp- 
ing laugh  and  shut  the  door  in  my  face.  For  a 
moment  I stood  there  stunned.  His  ascending 
steps  on  the  stairs  brought  back  my  senses.  I ran 
to  the  door,  and  flung  it  open.  “You  laugh!”  I 
shouted,  shaking  my  fist  at  him,  standing  halfway 
up  the  stairs,  “you  laugh  now,  but  wait  — ” And 
then  I got  the  grip  of  my  temper  and  slammed  the 
door  in  my  turn.  All  the  same,  in  that  hour  it  was 
settled  that  I was  to  be  a reporter.  I knew  it  as  I 
went  out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  V 


I Co  INTO  BUSINESS,  HEADLONG 

Somewhat  suddenly  and  quite  unexpectedly,  a 
business  career  opened  for  me  that  winter.  Once 
I had  tried  to  crowd  into  it  uninvited,  but  the  result 
was  not  good.  It  was  when  I had  observed  that, 
for  the  want  of  the  window  reflectors  which  were 
much  in  use  in  the  old  country,  American  ladies 
were  at  a disadvantage  in  their  homes  in  not  being 
able  to  make  out  undesirable  company  at  a dis- 
tance, themselves  unseen,  and  conveniently  forget- 
ting that  they  were  “ in.”  This  civilizing  agency 
I set  about  supplying  forthwith.  I made  a model 
and  took  it  to  a Yankee  business  man,  to  whom  I 
explained  its  use.  He  listened  attentively,  took  the 
model,  and  said  he  had  a good  mind  to  have  me 
locked  up  for  infringing  the  patent  laws  of  other 
lands ; but  because  I had  sinned  from  io^norance  he 
would  refrain.  His  manner  was  so  impressive  that 
he  really  made  me  uneasy  lest  I had  broken  some 
kind  of  a law  I knew  not  of.  From  the  fact  that 
not  long  after  window  reflectors  began  to  make 
their  appearance  in  Buffalo,  I infer  that,  whatever 


/OI 


102 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  enactment,  it  did  not  apply  to  natives,  or  else 
that  he  was  a very  fearless  man,  willing  to  take  the 
risk  from  which  he  would  save  me  — a sort  of  com- 
mercial philanthropist.  However,  by  that  time  I 
had  other  things  to  think  of,  being  a drummer  and 
a very  energetic  one. 

It  came  about  in  this  way : some  countrymen  of 
mine  had  started  a cooperative  furniture-factory 
in  Jamestown,  where  there  were  water-power  and 
cheap  lumber.  They  had  no  capital,  but  just  below 
was  the  oil  country,  where  everybody  had  money, 
slathers  of  it.  New  wells  gushed  every  day,  and 
boom  towns  were  springing  up  all  along  the  Alle- 
gheny valley.  Men  were  streaming  into  it  from 
everywhere,  and  needed  furniture.  If  once  they 
got  the  grip  on  that  country,  reasoned  the  furniture- 
makers,  they  would  get  rich  quickly  with  the  rest. 
The  thing  was  to  get  it.  To  do  that  they  needed 
a man  who  could  talk.  Perhaps  they  remembered 
the  creation  of  the  world  the  year  before.  At  all 
events,  they  sent  up  to  Buffalo  and  asked  me  if  I 
would  try. 

I slammed  my  tool-box  shut  and  started  for 
Jamestown  on  the  next  train.  Twenty -four  hours 
later  saw  me  headed  for  the  oil  country,  equipped 
with  a mighty  album  and  a price-list.  The  album 
contained  pictures  of  the  furniture  I had  for  sale. 
All  the  way  down  I studied  the  price-list,  and  when 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


103 


I reached  Titusville  I knew  to  a cent  what  it  cost 
my  employers  per  foot  to  make  ash  extension 
tables.  I only  wish  they  had  known  half  as  well. 

My  first  customer  was  a grumpy  old  shopkeeper 
who  needed  neither  tables  nor  bedsteads,  so  he 
said.  But  I had  thought  it  all  over  and  made  up 
my  mind  that  the  first  blow  was  half  the  battle. 
Therefore  I knew  better.  I pushed  my  album 
under  his  nose,  and  it  fell  open  at  the  extension 
tables.  Cheap,  I said,  and  rattled  off  the  price.  I 
saw  him  prick  up  his  ears,  but  he  only  growled  that 
probably  they  were  no  good. 

What!  my  extension  tables  no  good.^  I dared 
him  to  try  them,  and  he  gave  me  an  order  for  a 
dozen,  but  made  me  sign  an  agreement  that  they 
were  to  be  every  way  as  represented.  I would  have 
backed  my  tables  with  an  order  for  the  whole  shop, 
so  sure  was  I that  they  could  not  be  beaten.  The 
idea!  With  the  fit  of  righteous  indignation  upon 
me,  I went  out  and  sold  every  other  furniture- 
dealer  in  Titusville  a bill  of  tables;  not  one  of 
them  escaped.  At  night,  when  I had  sent  the 
order  home,  I set  out  for  Oil  City,  so  as  to  lose  no 
valuable  tim.e. 

It  was  just  the  same  there.  For  some  reason 
they  were  suspicious  of  the  extension  tables,  yet 
they  wanted  nothing  else.  I had  to  give  ironclad 
guarantees  that  they  were  as  represented,  which  I 


104  the  making  of  an  AMERICAN 


did  impatiently  enough.  There  was  a thunder- 
storm raging  at  the  time.  The  lightning  had 
struck  a tank,  and  the  burning  oil  ran  down  a hill 

and  set  the 
town  on  fire. 
One  end  of  it 
was  burning- 
while  I was 
canvassing  the 
other,  mental- 
ly calculating 
how  many  eX' 
tension  tables 
would  be 
needed  to  re- 
place those 
that  were  lost. 
People  did  not 
seem  to  have 
heard  of  any 
other  kind  of 
furniture  in 
that  country. 
Walnut  bed- 
steads, marble- 
top  bureaus,  turned  washstands  — they  passed  them 
all  by  to  fall  upon  the  tables  with  shrill  demand.  I 
made  out  their  case  to  suit  the  facts,  as  I swept 


“One  end  of  the  town  was  burning  while  i was 
canvassing  the  other.” 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


05 


down  through  that  region,  scattering  extension 
tables  right  and  left.  It  was  the  excitement,  I 
reasoned,  the  inrush  of  population  from  every- 
where ; probably  everybody  kept  boarders,  more 
every  day ; had  to  extend  their  tables  to  seat  them. 
I saw  a great  opportunity  and  resolutely  grasped  it. 
If  it  was  tables  they  wanted,  tables  it  should  be.  I 
let  all  the  rest  of  the  stock  go  and  threw  myself  on 
the  tables  exclusively.  Town  after  town  I filled 
with  them.  Night  after  night  the  mails  groaned 
under  the  heavy  orders  for  extension  tables  I sent 
north.  From  Allegheny  City  alone  an  order  of  a 
thousand  dollars’  worth  from  a single  reputable 
dealer  went  home,  and  I figured  in  my  note-book 
that  night  a commission  of  $50  for  myself  plus  my 
salary. 

I could  know  nothing  of  the  despatches  that 
were  hot  on  my  trail  ever  since  my  first  order  came 
from  Titusville,  telling  me  to  stop,  let  up  on  the 
tables,  come  home,  anything;  there  was  a mistake 
in  the  price.  They  never  overtook  me.  My  pace 
was  too  hot  for  that.  Anyhow,  I doubt  if  I would 
have  paid  any  attention  to  them.  I had  my  in- 
structions and  was  selling  according  to  orders. 
Business  was  good,  getting  better  every  day.  The 
firm  wrote  to  my  customers,  but  they  merely  sent 
back  copies  of  the  iron-clad  contract.  They  had 
seen  my  instructions,  and  they  knew  it  was  all 


io6 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


right.  It  was  not  until  I brought  up,  my  last 
penny  gone,  in  Rochester,  near  the  Ohio  line,  that 
the  firm  established  communication  with  me  at 
last.  Their  instructions  were  brief : to  come  home 
and  sell  no  more  tables.  They  sent  $io,  but  gave 
me  no  clew  to  their  curious  decision,  with  things 
booming  as  they  were. 

Being  in  the  field  I considered  that,  whatever 
was  up,  I had  a better  command  of  the  situation. 
I decided  that  I would  not  go  home,  — at  least  not 
until  I had  sold  a few  more  extension  tables  while 
they  were  in  such  demand.  I made  that  $io  go 
farther  than  $io  ever  went  before.  It  took  me  a 
little  way  into  Ohio,  to  Youngstown,  and  then  back 
to  Pennsylvania,  to  Warren  and  Meadville  and 
Corry.  My  previous  training  in  going  hungry  for 
days  came  in  handy  at  last.  In  the  interests  of 
commerce,  I let  my  dinners  go.  So  I was  enabled 
to  make  a final  dash  to  Erie,  where  I planted  my 
last  batch  of  tables  before  I went  home,  happy. 

I got  home  in  time  to  assist  in  the  winding  up 
of  the  concern.  The  iron-clad  contracts  had  done 
the  business.  My  customers  would  not  listen  to 
explanations.  When  told  that  the  price  of  those 
tables  was  lower  than  the  cost  of  working  up  the 
wood,  they  replied  that  it  was  none  of  their  busi- 
ness. They  had  their  contracts.  The  Allegheny 
man  threatened  suit,  if  I remember  rightly,  and 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


107 


the  firm  gave  up.  Nobody  blamed  me,  for  I had 
sold  according  to  orders ; but  instead  of  $450  which 
I had  figured  out  as  my  commission,  I got  seventy- 
five  cents.  It  was  half  of  what  my  employer  had. 
He  divided  squarely,  and  I could  not  in  reason 
complain. 

I sat  in  the  restaurant  where  he  had  explained  the 
situation  to  me,  and  tried  to  telescope  my  ambi- 
tions down  to  the  seventy-five-cent  standard,  when 
my  eyes  fell  upon  a copy  of  Harper  s Weekly 
that  lay  on  the  table.  Absent-mindedly  I read  an 
advertisement  in  small  type,  spelling  it  over  idly 
while  I was  trying  to  think  what  to  do  next. 

“Wanted,”  it  read,  “by  the  Myers  Manufactur- 
ing Company,  agents  to  sell  a patent  flat  and  flut- 
ing iron.  Samples  75  cents.” 

The  address  was  somewhere  in  John  Street,  New 
York.  Samples  seventy-five  cents  ! I repeated  it  me- 
chanically. Why,  that  was  just  the  size  of  my  pile. 
And  right  in  my  line  of  canvassing,  too ! In  ten 
minutes  it  was  on  the  way  to  New  York  and  I had 
secured  a provisional  customer  in  the  cook  at  the 
restaurant  for  an  iron  that  would  perform  what  this 
one  promised,  iron  the  skirt  and  flute  the  flounce 
too.  In  three  days  the  iron  came  and  proved  good. 
I started  in  canvassing  Jamestown  with  it,  and  in 
a week  had  secured  orders  for  one  hundred  and 
twenty,  upon  which  my  profit  would  be  over  $80. 


o8 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Something  of  business  ways  must  have  stuck  to 
me,  after  all,  from  my  one  excursion  into  the  realm 
of  trade ; for  when  it  came  to  delivering  the  goods 
and  I had  no  money,  I went  boldly  to  a business 
man  whose  wife  was  on  my  books,  and  offered,  if 
he  would  send  for  the  irons,  to  pay  for  them  as  I 
took  them  out  of  the  store.  He  made  no  bones 
about  it,  but  sent  for  the  irons  and  handed  them 
over  to  me  to  pay  for  when  I could.  So  men  are 
made.  Commercial  character,  as  it  is  rated  on 
’change,  I had  none  before  that ; but  I had  after. 
How  could  I disappoint  a man  like  that.^^ 

The  confidence  of  the  community  I had  not  lost 
through  my  too  successful  trip  as  a drummer,  at  all 
events.  Propositions  came  speedily  to  me  to  “ travel 
in  ” pianos  and  pumps  for  local  concerns.  It  never 
rains  but  it  pours.  An  old  schoolmate  who  had 
been  ordained  a clergyman  wrote  to  me  from  Den- 
mark to  find  him  a charge  among  the  Danish  settle- 
ments out  West.  But  neither  pumps,  pianos,  nor 
parsons  had  power  to  swerve  me. from  my  chosen 
course.  With  them  went  bosses  and  orders ; with 
the  flat-iron  cherished  independence.  When  I 
had  sold  out  Jamestown,  I made  a bee-line  for  Pitts- 
burg, a city  that  had  taken  my  fancy  because  of  its 
brisk  business  ways.  They  were  brisk  indeed. 
Grant’s  second  campaign  for  the  Presidency  was 
in  full  swing.  On  my  second  night  in  town  I went 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


109 


“I  went  to  hear  Horace  Greeley  address  an  open-air  meeting.” 

to  hear  Horace  Greeley  address  an  open-air  meet- 
ing. I can  see  his  noble  old  head  yet  above  the 
crowd,  and  hear  his  opening  appeal.  Farther  I 
never  o-ot.  A marchine^  band  of  uniformed  shoiiters 
for  Grant  had  cut  right  through  the  crowd.  As  it 
passed  I felt  myself  suddenly  seized;  an  oilcloth 
cape  was  thrown  over  my  head,  a campaign  cap 
jammed  after,  and  I found  myself  marching  away 


I lO 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


with  a torch  on  my  shoulder  to  the  tune  of  a brass 
band  just  ahead.  How  many  others  of  Mr.  Greeley’s 
hearers  fared  as  I did  I do  not  know.  The  thing 
seemed  so  ludicrous  (and  if  I must  march  I really 
cared  very  little  whether  it  was  for  Greeley  or 
Grant)  that  I stuck  it  out,  hoping  as  we  went  to 
come  somewhere  upon  my  hat,  which  had  been  lost 
in  the  sudden  attack ; but  I never  saw  it  again. 

Speaking  of  parading,  my  old  desire  to  roam, 
that  kept  cropping  out  at  intervals,  paid  me  a 
characteristic  trick  at  this  time.  I was  passing 
through  a horse-market  when  I saw  a fine-looking, 
shapely  young  horse  put  up  at  what  seemed  a ridicu- 
lously low  price.  Eighteen  dollars  was  the  bid, 
and  it  was  about  to  be  knocked  down  at  that.  The 
October  sun  was  shining  warm  and  bright.  A 
sudden  desire  to  get  on  the  horse  and  ride  out 
into  the  wide  world,  away  from  the  city  and  the 
haunts  of  men,  never  to  come  back,  seized  me.  I 
raised  the  bid  to  $ig.  Almost  before  I knew,  the 
beast  was  knocked  down  to  me  and  I had  paid 
over  the  money.  It  left  me  with  exactly  $6  to  my 
name. 

Leading  the  animal  by  the  halter,  I went  down 
the  street  and  sat  on  the  stoop  of  the  Robinson 
House  to  think.  With  every  step,  perplexities  I 
hadn’t  thought  of  sprang  up.  In  the  first  place,  I 
could  not  ride.  I had  always  wanted  to,  but  had 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


1 1 1 


never  learned.  Even  if  I had  been  able  to,  where 
was  I going,  and  to  do  what?  I couldn’t  ride 
around  and  sell  flat-irons.  The  wide  world  seemed 
suddenly  a cold  and  far-off  place,  and  $6  but  small 
backing  in  an  attack  upon  it,  with  a hungry  horse  © 
waiting  to  be  fed.  That  was  only  too  evident. 


‘The  wide  world  seemed  suddenly  a cold  and  far-off  place.” 

The  beast  was  tearing  the  hitching-post  with  its 
teeth  in  a way  that  brooked  no  delay.  Evidently 
it  had  a healthy  appetite.  The  conclusion  was 
slowly  dawning  upon  me  that  I had  made  a fool 
of  myself,  when  the  man  who  had  bid  $i8  came 
by  and  saw  me  sitting  there.  He  stopped  to  ask 
what  was  the  matter,  and  I told  him  frankly.  He 


II2 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


roared  and  gave  me  $iS  for  the  beast.  I was  glad 
enough  to  give  it  up.  I never  owned  a horse  before 
or  since,  and  I had  that  less  than  fifteen  minutes ; 
but  it  was  the  longest  quarter  of  an  hour  since  I 
worked  in  the  coal-mine. 

The  flat-iron  did  not  go  in  Pittsburg.  It  was  too 
cheap.  During  a brief  interval  I peddled  cam- 
paign books,  but  shortly  found  a more  expensive 
iron,  and  had  flve  counties  in  western  Pennsyl- 
vania allotted  to  me  as  territory.  There  followed 
a winter  of  great  business.  Before  it  was  half  over 
I had  achieved  a bank  account,  though  how  I man- 
aged it  is  a mystery  to  me  till  this  day.  Simple  as 
the  reckoning  of  my  daily  trade  ought  to  be,  by  no 
chance  could  I ever  make  it  foot  up  as  it  should. 
I tried  honestly  every  night,  but  the  receipts  would 
never  square  with  the  expenditures,  do  what  I 
might.  I kept  them  carefully  apart  in  different 
pockets,  but  mixed  they  would  get  in  spite  of  all. 
I had  to  call  it  square,  however  far  the  footing  was 
out  of  the  way,  or  sit  up  all  night,  which  I would 
not  do.  I remember  well  the  only  time  I came  out 
even.  I was  so  astonished  that  I would  not  believe 
it,  but  had  to  go  all  over  the  account  again.  That 
night  I slept  the  sleep  of  the  just.  The  next  morn- 
ing, when  I was  starting  out  on  my  route  with  a 
clean  conscience  and  a clean  slate,  a shopkeeper 
rapped  on  his  window  as  I went  by  to  tell  me  that 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS  II3 

I had  given  him  the  previous  day  a twenty-dollar 
bill  for  a ten,  in  making  change.  After  that  I gave 
up  trying. 

I was  no  longer  alone.  From  Buffalo  my  old 
chum  Ronne  had  come,  hearing  that  I was  doing 
well,  to  join  me,  and  from  Denmark  an  old  school- 
fellow, whose  life  at  twenty-two  had  been  wrecked 
by  drink  and  who  wrote  begging  to  be  allowed  to 
come.  His  mother  pleaded  for  him  too,  but  it  was 
not  needed.  He  had  enclosed  in  his  letter  the 
strongest  talisman  of  all,  a letter  written  by  Eliza- 
beth in  the  long  ago  when  we  were  children  to- 
gether. I have  it  yet.  He  came,  and  I tried  hard 
to  break  him  of  his  failing.  But  I had  undertaken 
a job  that  was  too  big  for  me.  Upon  my  return 
from  a Western  trip  I found  that  he  had  taken  to 
drinking  again,  and  in  his  cups  had  enlisted.  His 
curse  followed  him  into  the  army.  He  rose  to  the 
rank  of  sergeant,  only  to  fall  again  and  suffer  degra- 
dation. The  other  day  he  shot  himself  at  the  post 
where  he  was  stationed,  after  nearly  thirty  years  of 
service.  Yet  in  all  his  ups  and  downs  he  never  for- 
got his  home.  While  his  mother  lived  he  helped 
support  her  in  far-off  Denmark;  and  when  she  was 
gone,  no  month  passed  that  he  did  not  send  home 
the  half  of  his  wages  for  the  support  of  his  crippled 
sister  in  the  old  town.  Charles  was  not  bad.  He 
was  a poor,  helpless,  unhappy  boy,  who  came  to  me 


1 14  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

for  help,  and  I had  none  to  give,  God  pity  him  and 
me. 

The  Western  trip  I spoke  of  was  my  undoing. 
Puffed  up  by  my  success  as  a salesman,  I yielded  in 
an  evil  hour  to  the  blandishments  of  my  manufac- 
turers, and  accepted  the  general  agency  of  the  State 
of  Illinois,  with  headquarters  in  Chicago.  It  sounded 
well,  but  it  did  not  work  well.  Chicago  had  not  yet 
got  upon  its  feet  after  the  great  fire  ; and  its  young 
men  were  too  sharp  for  me.  In  six  weeks  they  had 
cleaned  me  out  bodily,  had  run  away  with  my  irons 
and  with  money  they  borrowed  of  me  to  start  them 
in  business.  I returned  to  Pittsburg  as  poor  as 
ever,  to  find  that  the  agents  I had  left  behind  in  my 
Pennsylvania  territory  had  dealt  with  me  after  the 
same  fashion.  The  firm  for  which  I worked  had 
connived  at  the  frauds.  My  friends  had  left  me. 
The  one  I spoke  of  was  in  the  army.  Ronne  had 
given  up  in  discouragement,  and  was  at  work  in  a 
rolling-mill.  In  the  utter  wreck  of  all  my  hopes  I 
was  alone  again. 

Angry  and  sore,  I went  up  the  Allegheny  River, 
with  no  definite  purpose  in  mind  except  to  get  away 
from  everybody  I knew.  At  Franklin  I fell  ill  with 
a sneaking  fever.  It  was  while  I lay  helpless  in  a 
lonely  tavern  by  the  riverside  that  the  crushing  blow 
fell.  Letters  from  home,  sent  on  from  Pittsburg, 
told  me  that  Elizabeth  was  to  be  married.  A cav- 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


II5 

airy  officer  who  was  in  charge  of  the  border  police, 
a dashing  fellow  and  a good  soldier,  had  won  her 
heart.  The  wedding  was  to  be  in  the  summer.  It 
was  then  the  last  week  in  April.  At  the  thought  1 
turned  my  face  to  the  wall,  and  hoped  that  I might 
die. 

But  one  does  not  die  of  love  at  twenty-four.  The 
days  that  passed  slowly  saw  me  leave  my  sick-bed 
and  limp  down  to  the  river  on  sunny  days,  to  sit  and 
watch  the  stream  listlessly  for  hours,  hoping  nothing, 
grasping  nothing,  except  that  it  was  all  over.  In  all 
my  misadventures  that  was  the  one  thing  I had 
never  dreamed  of.  If  I did,  I as  quickly  banished 
the  thought  as  preposterous.  That  she  should  be 
another’s  bride  seemed  so  utterly  impossible  that, 
sick  and  feeble  as  I was,  I laughed  it  to  scorn  even 
then ; whereat  I fell  to  reading  the  fatal  letter  again, 
and  trying  to  grasp  its  meaning.  It  made  it  all  only 
the  more  perplexing  that  I should  not  know  who  he 
was  or  what  he  was.  I had  never  heard  of  him  be- 
fore, in  that  town  where  I thought  I knew  every  liv- 
ing soul.  That  he  must  be  a noble  fellow  I knew,  or 
he  could  not  have  won  her ; but  who — why — what — 
what  had  come  over  everything  in  such  a short  time, 
and  what  was  this  ugly  dream  that  was  setting  my 
brain  awhirl  and  shutting  out  the  sunlight  and  the 
day  ? Presently  I was  in  a relapse,  and  it  was  ak 
darkness  to  me,  and  oblivion. 


ii6 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


When  at  last  I got  well  enough  to  travel,  I set  my 
face  toward  the  east,  and  journeyed  on  foot  through 
the  northern  coal  regions  of  Pennsylvania  by  slow 
stages,  caring  little  whither  I went,  and  earning  just 
enough  by  peddling  flat-irons  to  pay  my  way.  It  was 
spring  when  I started  ; the  autumn  tints  were  on  the 
leaves  when  I brought  up  in  New  York  at  last,  as 
nearly  restored  as  youth  and  the  long  tramp  had 
power  to  do.  But  the  restless  energy  that  had  made 
of  me  a successful  salesman  was  gone.  I thought 
only,  if  I thought  at  all,  of  finding  some  quiet  place 
where  I could  sit  and  see  the  world  go  by  that  con- 
cerned me  no  longer.  With  a dim  idea  of  being 
sent  into  the  farthest  wilds  as  an  operator,  I went 
to  a business  college  on  Fourth  Avenue  and 
paid  $20  to  learn  telegraphing.  It  was  the 
last  money  I had.  I attended  the  school  in  the 
afternoon.  In  the  morning  I peddled  flat-irons, 
earning  money  for  my  board,  and  so  made  out. 

One  day,  while  I was  so  occupied,  I saw  among 
the  “ want  ” advertisements  in  a newspaper  one 
offering  the  position  of  city  editor  on  a Long  Island 
City  weekly  to  a competent  man.  Something  of  my 
old  ambition  stirred  within  me.  It  did  not  occur  to 
me  that  city  editors  were  not  usually  obtained  by 
advertising,  still  less  that  I was  not  competent,  hav- 
ing only  the  vaguest  notions  of  what  the  functions 
of  a city  editor  might  be.  I applied  for  the  job,  and 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


II7 


got  it  at  once.  Eight  dollars  a week  was  to  be  my 
salary;  my  job,  to  fill  the  local  column  and  attend 
to  the  affairs  of  Hunter’s  Point  and  Blissville  gen- 
erally, politics  excluded.  The  editor  attended  to 
that.  In  twenty-four  hours  I was  hard  at  work 
writing  up  my  then  most  ill-favored  bailiwick.  It 
is  none  too  fine  yet,  but  in  those  days,  when  every 
nuisance  crowded  out  of  New  York  found  refuge 
there,  it  stunk  to  heaven. 

Certainly  I had  entered  journalism  by  the  back 
door,  very  far  back  at  that,  when  I joined  the  staff 
of  the  Review,  Signs  of  that  appeared  speedily, 
and  multiplied  day  by  day.  On  the  third  day  of 
my  employment  I beheld  the  editor-in-chief  being 
thrashed  down  the  street  by  an  irate  coachman 
whom  he  had  offended,  and  when,  in  a spirit  of  loy- 
alty, I would  have  cast  in  my  lot  with  him,  I was 
held  back  by  one  of  the  printers  with  the  laughing 
comment  that  that  was  his  daily  diet  and  that  it  was 
good  for  him.  That  was  the  only  way  any  one  ever 
got  any  satisfaction  or  anything  else  out  of  him. 
Judging  from  the  goings  on  about  the  office  in  the 
two  weeks  I was  there,  he  must  have  been  exten- 
sively in  debt  to  all  sorts  of  people  who  were  trying 
to  collect.  When,  on  my  second  deferred  pay-day, 
I met  him  on  the  stairs,  propelled  by  his  washer- 
woman, who  brought  her  basket  down  on  his  head 
with  every  step  he  took,  calling  upon  the  populace 


Ii8 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


(the  stairs  were  outside  the  building)  to  witness  just 
punishment  meted  out  to  him  for  failing  to  pay  for 
the  washing  of  his  shirts,  I rightly  concluded  that  the 
city  editor  s claim  stood  no  show.  I left  him  owing 
me  two  weeks’  pay,  but  I freely  forgive  him.  I 
think  I got  my  money’s  worth  of  experience.  I did 
not  let  grass  grow  under  my  feet  as  “ city  editor.” 
Hunter’s  Point  had  received  for  once  a thorough 
raking  over,  and  I my  first  lesson  in  hunting  the 
elusive  item  and,  when  found,  making  a note  of  it. 

Except  for  a Newfoundland  pup  which  some 
one  had  given  me,  I went  back  over  the  river  as 
poor  as  I had  come.  The  dog  proved  rather  a 
doubtful  possession  as  the  days  went  by.  Its 
appetite  was  tremendous,  and  its  preference  for 
my  society  embarrassingly  unrestrained.  It  would 
not  be  content  to  sleep  anywhere  else  than  in  my 
room.  If  I put  it  out  in  the  yard,  it  forthwith  or- 
ganize(J  a search  for  me  in  which  the  entire  neigh- 
borhood was  compelled  to  take  part,  willy-nilly. 
Its  manner  of  doing  it  boomed  the  local  trade  in 
hair-brushes  and  mantel  bric-a-brac,  but  brought 
on  complications  with  the  landlord  in  the  morning 
that  usually  resulted  in  the  departure  of  Bob  and 
myself  for  other  pastures.  Part  with  him  I could 
not ; for  Bob  loved  me.  Once  I tried,  when  it 
seemed  that  there  was  no  choice.  I had  been  put 
out  for  perhaps  the  tenth*  time,  and  I had  no  more 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS  II9 

money  left  to  provide  for  our  keep.  A Wall  Street 
broker  had  advertised  for  a watch-dog,  and  I went 
with  Bob  to  see  him.  But  when  he  would  have 
counted  the  three  gold  pieces  he  offered  into  my 
hand,  I saw  Bob’s  honest  brown  eyes  watching 
me  with  a look  of  such  faithful  affection  that  I 
dropped  the  coins  as  if  they  burned,  and  caught  him 
about  the  neck  to  tell  him  that  we  would  never  part. 
Bob  put  his  huge  paws  on  my  shoulders,  licked  my 
face,  and  barked  such  a joyous  bark  of  challenge  to 
the  world  in  general  that  even  the  Wall  Street  man 
was  touched. 

“ I guess  you  are  too  good  friends  to  part,”  he 
said.  And  so  we  were. 

We  left  Wall  Street  and  its  gold  behind  to  go 
out  and  starve  together.  Literally  we  did  that  in 
the  days  that  followed.  I had  taken  to  peddling 
books,  an  illustrated  Dickens  issued  by  the  Haipers, 
but  I barely  earned  enough  by  it  to  keep  life  in  us 
and  a transient  roof  over  our  heads.  I call  it  tran- 
sient because  it  was  rarely  the  same  two  nights 
together,  for  causes  which  I have  explained.  In  the 
day  Bob  made  out  rather  better  than  I.  He  could 
always  coax  a supper  out  of  the  servant  at  the  base- 
ment gate  by  his  curvetings  and  tricks,  while  I 
pleaded  vainly  and  hungrily  with  the  mistress  at  the 
front  door.  Dickens  was  a drug  in  the  market.  A 
curious  fatality  had  given  me  a copy  of  “ Hard 


120 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Times  ” to  canvass  with.  I think  no  amount  of 
good  fortune  could  turn  my  head  while  it  stands 
in  my  bookcase.  One  look  at  it  brings  back  too 
vividly  that  day  when  Bob  and  1 had  gone,  desperate 
and  breakfastless,  from  the  last  bed  we  might  know 
for  many  days,  to  try  to  sell  it  and  so  get  the  means 
to  keep  us  for  another  twenty-four  hours. 

It  was  not  only  breakfast  we  lacked.  The  day 
before  we  had  had  only  a crust  together.  Two 
days  without  food  is  not  good  preparation  for  a 
day’s  canvassing.  We  did  the  best  we  could.  Bob 
stood  by  and  wagged  his  tail  persuasively  while  I 
did  the  talking ; but  luck  was  dead  against  us,  and 
“ Hard  Times ’’stuck  to  us  for  all  we  tried.  Even- 
ing came  and  found  us  down  by  the  Cooper  Insti- 
tute, with  never  a cent.  Faint  with  hunger,  I sat 
down  on  the  steps  under  the  illuminated  clock, 
while  Bob  stretched  himself  at  my  feet.  He  had 
beguiled  the  cook  in  one  of  the  last  houses  we  called 
at,  and  his  stomach  was  filled.  From  the  corner  I 
had  looked  on  enviously.  For  me  there  was  no 
supper,  as  there  had  been  no  dinner  and  no  break- 
fast. To-morrow  there  was  another  day  of  starva- 
tion. How  long  was  this  to  last  Was  it  any 
use  to  keep  up  a struggle  so  hopeless.?  From 
this  very  spot  I had  gone,  hungry  and  wrathful, 
three  years  before  when  the  dining  Frenchmen 
for  whom  I wanted  to  fight  thrust  me  forth  from 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


I2I 


their  company.  Three  wasted  years ! Then  I had 
one  cent  in  my  pocket,  I remembered.  To-day  I 
had  not  even  so  much.  I was  bankrupt  in  hope 


“ Hard  Times.” 


and  purpose.  Nothing  had  gone  right;  nothing 
would  ever  go  right ; and,  worse,  I did  not  care.  I 
drummed  moodily  upon  my  book.  Wasted  ! Yes, 
that  was  right.  My  life  was  wasted,  utterly  wasted. 


122 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


A voice  hailed  me  by  name,  and  Bob  sat  up, 
looking  attentively  at  me  for  his  cue  as  to  the  treat- 
ment of  the  owner  of  it.  I recognized  in  him  the 
principal  of  the  telegraph  school  where  I had  gone 
until  my  money  gave  out.  He  seemed  suddenly 
struck  by  something. 

“ Why,  what  are  you  doing  here  ? ” he  asked.  I 
told  him  Bob  and  I were  just  resting  after  a day  of 
canvassing. 

“ Books  ! ” he  snorted.  “ I guess  they  won’t 
make  you  rich.  Now,  how  would  you  like  to  be 
a reporter,  if  you  have  got  nothing  better  to  do  ? 
The  manager  of  a news  agency  down  town  asked 
me  to-day  to  find  him  a bright  young  fellow  whom 
he  could  break  in.  It  isn’t  much  — $io  a week  to 
start  with.  But  it  is  better  than  peddling  books, 
I know.” 

He  poked  over  the  book  in  my  hand  and  read  the 
title.  “ Hard  Times,”  he  said,  with  a little  laugh. 
“ I guess  so.  What  do  you  say  ? I think  you  will 
do.  Better  come  along  and  let  me  give  you  a note 
to  him  now.” 

As  in  a dream,  I walked  across  the  street  with 
him  to  his  office  and  got  the  letter  which  was  to 
make  me,  half-starved  and  homeless,  rich  as  Croesus, 
it  seemed  to  me.  Bob  went  along,  and  before  I 
departed  from  the  school  a better  home  than  I could 
give  him  was  found  for  him  with  my  benefactor.  I 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


123 


was  to'  bring  him  the  next  day.  I had  to  admit  that 
it  was  best  so.  That  night,  the  last  which  Bob 
and  I spent  together,  we  walked  up  and  down 
Broadway,  where  there  was  quiet,  thinking  it  over. 
What  had  happened  had  stirred  me  profoundly. 
For  the  second  time  I saw  a hand  held  out  to  save 
me  from  wreck  just  when  it  seemed  inevitable ; 
and  I knew  it  for  His  hand,  to  whose  will  I was 
at  last  beginning  to  bow  in  humility  that  had  been  a 
stranger  to  me  before.  It  had  ever  been  my  own 
will,  my  own  way,  upon  which  I insisted.  In  the 
shadow  of  Grace  Church  I bowed  my  head  against  the 
granite  wall  of  the  gray  tower  and  prayed  for  strength 
to  do  the  work  which  I had  so  long  and  arduously 
sought  and  which  had  now  come  to  me ; the  while 
Bob  sat  and  looked  on,  saying  clearly  enough  with 
his  wagging  tail  that  he  did  not  know  what  was 
going  on,  but  that  he  was  sure  it  was  all  right. 
Then  we  resumed  our  wanderings.  One  thought, 
and  only  one,  I had  room  for.  I did  not  pursue  it ; 
it  walked  with  me  wherever  I went:  She  was  not 
married  yet.  Not  yet.  When  the  sun  rose,  I 
washed  my  face  and  hands  in  a dog’s  drinking- 
trough,  pulled  my  clothes  into  such  shape  as  I could, 
and  went  with  Bob  to  his  new  home.  That  parting 
over,  I walked  down  to  23  Park  Row  and  delivered 
my  letter  to  the  desk  editor  in  the  New  York  News 
Association,  up  on  the  top  floor. 


124 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


He  looked  me  over  a little  doubtfully,  but  evi- 
dently impressed  with  the  early  hours  I kept,  told 
me  that  I might  try.  He  waved  me  to  a desk,  bid- 
ding me  wait  until  he  had  made  out  his  morning 
book  of  assignments;  and  with  such  scant  ceremony 
was  I finally  introduced  to  Newspaper  Row,  that 
had  been  to  me  like  an  enchanted  land.  After 
twenty-seven  years  of  hard  work  in  it,  during  which 
I have  been  behind  the  scenes  of  most  of*  the  plays 
that  go  to  make  up  the  sum  of  the  life  of  the 
metropolis,  it  exercises  the  old  spell  over  me  yet. 
If  my  sympathies  need  quickening,  my  point  of  view 
adjusting,  I have  only  to  go  down  to  Park  Row  at 
eventide,  when  the  crowds  are  hurrying  homeward 
and  the  City  Hall  clock  is  lighted,  particularly 
when  the  snow  lies  on  the  grass  in  the  park,  and 
stand  watching  them  awhile,  to  find  all  things  com- 
ing right.  It  is  Bob  who  stands  by  and  watches 
with  me  then,  as  on  that  night. 

The  assignment  that  fell  to  my  lot  when  the 
book  was  made  out,  the  first  against  which  my  name 
was  written  in  a New  York  editor’s  book,  was  a 
lunch  of  some  sort  at  the  Astor  House.  I have  for- 
gotten what  was  the  special  occasion.  I remember 
the  bearskin  hats  of  the  Old  Guard  in  it,  but  little 
else.  In  a kind  of  haze,  I beheld  half  the  savory 
viands  of  earth  spread  under  the  eyes  and  nostrils  of 
a man  who  had  not  tasted  food  for  the  third  day. 


I GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


125 


I did  not  ask  for  any.  I had  reached  that  stage  of 
starvation  that  is  like  the  still  centre  of  a cyclone, 
when  no  hunger  is  felt.  But  it  may  be  that  a touch 
of  it  all  crept  into  my  report ; for  when  the  editor 
had  read  it,  he  said  briefly : — 

“ You  will  do.  Take  that  desk,  and  report  at  ten 
every  morning,  sharp.” 

That  night,  when  I was  dismissed  from  the  office, 
I went  up  the  Bowery  to  No.  185,  where  a Danish 
family  kept  a boarding-house  up  under  the  roof.  I 
had  work  and  wages  now,  and  could  pay.  On  the 
stairs  I fell  in  a swoon  and  lay  there  till  some  one 
stumbled  over  me  in  the  dark  and  carried  me  in. 
My  strength  had  at  last  given  out. 

So  began  my  life  as  a newspaper  man. 


CHAPTER  VI 


IN  WHICH  I BECOME  AN  EDITOR  AND  RECEIVE 
MY  FIRST  LOVE  LETTER 

I HAD  my  hands  full  that  winter.  The  profession 
I had  entered  by  so  thorny  a path  did  not  prove  to 
be  a bed  of  roses.  But  I was  not  looking  for  roses. 
I doubt  if  I would  have  known  what  to  do  with 
them  had  there  been  any.  Hard  work  and  hard 
knocks  had  been  my  portion  heretofore,  and  I was 
fairly  trained  down  to  that.  Besides,  now  that  the 
question  where  the  next  meal  was  to  come  from 
did  not  loom  up  whichever  way  I looked,  the  thing 
for  me  was  to  be  at  work  hard  enough  and  long 
enough  to  keep  from  thinking.  With  every  letter 
from  home  I expected  to  hear  that  she  was  married, 
and  then  — I never  got  any  farther.  A furious  kind 
of  energy  took  possession  of  me  at  the  mere  idea, 
and  I threw  myself  upon  my  work  in  a way  that 
speedily  earned  for  me  the  name  of  a good  reporter 
“ Good  ” had  reference  to  the  quantity  of  work 
done  rather  than  to  the  quality  of  it.  That  was  of 
less  account  than  our  ability  to  “get  around”  to  our 
assignments ; necessarily  so,  for  we  mostly  had  six 

126 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


127 


or  seven  of  an  evening  to  attend,  our  route  extend- 
ing often  from  Harlem  clear  down  to  the  Bowery. 
So  that  they  were  nearly  “ on  a line,”  we  were  sup- 
posed to  have  no  cause  of  complaint.  Our  office 
sold  news  to  morning  and  evening  papers  both,  and 
our  working  day,  which  began  at  10  a.m.,  was  sel- 
dom over  until  one  or  two  o’clock  the  next  morning. 
Three  reporters  had  to  attend  to  all  the  general 
news  of  the  city  that  did  not  come  through  the 
regular  department  channels. 

A queerly  assorted  trio  we  were : “ Doc  ” Lynch, 
who  had  graduated  from  the  medical  school  to 
Bohemia,  following  a natural  bent,  I suppose ; 
Crafts,  a Maine  boy  of  angular  frame  and  prodigious 
self-confidence ; and  myself.  Lynch  I have  lost 
sight  of  long  ago.  Crafts,  I am  told,  is  rich  and 
prosperous,  the  owner  of  a Western  newspaper. 
That  was  bound  to  happen  to  him.  I remember 
him  in  the  darkest  days  of  that  winter,  when  to 
small  pay,  hard  work,  and  long  hours  had  been 
added  an  attack  of  measles  that  kept  him  in  bed  in 
his  desolate  boarding-house,  far  from  kindred  and 
friends.  “ Doc  ” and  I had  run  in  on  a stolen  visit 
to  fill  their  place  as  well  as  we  might.  We  sat 
around  trying  to  look  as  cheerful  as  we  could  and 
succeeding  very  poorly;  but  Crafts’s  belief  in  him- 
self and  his  star  soared  above  any  trivialities  of 
present  discouragement.  I see  him  now  rising  on 


128 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


his  elbow  and  transfixing  the  two  of  us  with  long, 
prophetic  forefinger : — 

“ The  secret  of  my  success,”  he  said,  impressively, 
“ I lay  to  — ” 

We  never  found  out  to  what  he  laid  it,  for  we 
both  burst  out  laughing,  and  Crafts,  after  a passing 
look  of  surprise,  joined  in.  But  that  finger  prophe- 
sied truly.  His  pluck  won  the  day,  and  won  it 
fairly.  They  were  two  good  comrades  in  a tight 
place.  I shouldn’t  want  any  better. 

Running  around  was  only  working  of¥  steam,  of 
which  we  had  plenty.  The  long  rides,  on  Harlem 
assignments,  in  horse-cars  with  straw  in  the  bottom 
that  didn’t  keep  our  feet  from  freezing  until  all  feel- 
ing in  them  was  gone,  were  worse,  a good  deal. 
At  the  mere  thought  of  them  I fall  to  nursing  my 
toes  for  reminiscent  pangs.  However,  I had  at  least 
enough  to  eat.  At  the  downtown  Delmonico’s  and 
the  other  swell  restaurants  through  the  windows  of 
which  I had  so  often  gazed  with  hungry  eyes,  I now 
sometimes  sat  at  big  spreads  and  public  dinners, 
never  without  thinking  of  the  old  days  and  the  poor 
fellows  who  might  then  be  having  my  hard  luck. 
It  was  not  so  long  since  that  I could  have  forgotten. 
I bit  a mark  in  the  Mulberry  Bend,  too,  as  my  pro- 
fessional engagements  took  me  that  way,  promising 
myself  that  the  day  should  come  when  I would  have 
time  to  attend  to  it.  For  the  rest,  if  I had  an  hour 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR  I2Q 

to  spare,  I put  it  in  at  the  telegraph  instrument.  I 
had  still  the  notion  that  it  might  not  be  labor  lost. 
And  though  I never  had  professional  use  for  it,  it 
did  come  handy  to  me  as  a reporter  more  than  once. 
There  is  scarcely  anything  one  can  learn  that  will 
not  sooner  or  later  be  useful  to  a newspaper  man,  if 
he  is  himself  of  the  kind  that  wants  to  be  useful. 

Along  in  the  spring  some  politicians  in  South 
Brooklyn  who  had  started  a weekly  newspaper  to 
boom  their  own  fortunes  found  themselves  in 
need  of  a reporter,  and  were  told  of  a “ young 
Dutchman’*  who  might  make  things  go.  I was 
that  “Dutchman.”  They  offered  me  $15  a week, 
and  on  May,  20,  1874,  I carried  my  grip  across 
the  river,  and,  all  unconscious  that  I was  on  the 
turning  tide  in  my  fortunes,  cast  in  my  lot  with 
“ Beecher’s  crowd,”  as  the  boys  in  the  office  said 
derisively  when  I left  them. 

In  two  weeks  I was  the  editor  of  the  paper. 
That  was  not  a vote  of  confidence,  but  pure  econ- 
omy on  the  part  of  my  owners.  They  saved  forty 
dollars  a week  by  giving  me  twenty-five  and  the 
name  of  editor.  The  idea  of  an  editor  in  anything 
but  the  name  I do  not  suppose  had  ever  entered 
their  minds.  Theirs  was  an  “ organ,”  and  for  the 
purposes  for  which  they  had  started  it  they  thought 
themselves  abundantly  able  to  run  it.  I,  on  my 
part,  quickly  grew  high  notions  of  editorial  inde- 


130 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


pendence.  Their  purposes  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  The  two  views  proved  irreconcilable.  They 
clashed  quite  regularly,  and  perhaps  it  was  as  much 
that  they  were  tired  of  the  editor  as  that  the  paper 
was  a drag  upon  them  that  made  them  throw  it  up 
after  the  fall  elections,  in  which  they  won.  The 
press  and  the  engine  were  seized  for  debt.  The 
last  issue  of  the  South  Brooklyn  News  had  been 
put  upon  the  street,  and  I went  to  the  city  to  make 
a bargain  with  the  foundryman  for  the  type.  It 
was  in  the  closing  days  of  the  year.  Christmas  was 
at  the  door,  with  its  memories.  Tired  and  dis- 
heartened, I was  on  my  way  back,  my  business 
done,  as  the  bells  rang  in  the  Holy  Eve.  I stood 
at  the  bow  of  a Fulton  Street  ferryboat  listening 
sadly  to  them,  and  watched  the  lights  of  the  city 
kindling  alongshore.  Of  them  all  not  one  was  for 
me.  It  was  all  over,  and  I should  have  to  strike  a 
new  trail.  Where  would  that  lead } What  did  it 
matter,  anyhow.^  Nobody  cared.  Why  should  I 
A beautiful  meteor  shot  out  of  the  heavens  over- 
head and  spanned  the  river  with  a shining  arc.  I 
watched  it  sail  slowly  over  Williamsburg,  its  trail 
glowing  bright  against  the  dark  sky,  and  mechani- 
cally the  old  wish  rose  to  my  lips.  It  was  a super- 
stition with  us  when  we  were  children  that  if  we 
were  quick  enough  to  “ wish  out  ” before  the  star 
was  extinguished,  the  wish  would  come  true.  I 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


131 

had  tried  a hundred  times,  always  to  fail ; but  for 
once  I had  ample  time.  A bitter  sigh  smothered 
the  wish,  half  uttered.  My  chance  had  come  too 
late.  Even  now  she  might  be  another  man  s wife, 
and  I — I had  just  made  another  failure  of  it,  as 
usual. 

It  had  never  happened  in  all  the  holiday  seasons 
I had  been  away  that  a letter  from  home  had 
reached  me  in  time  for  Christmas  Eve,  and  it  was 
a sore  subject  with  me.  Eor  it  was  ever  the 
dearest  in  the  year  to  me,  and  is  now.  But  that 
evening,  when  I came  home,  in  a very  ill  humor, 
for  the  first  time  I found  the  coveted  letter.  It 
told  me  of  the  death  of  my  two  older  brothers  and 
of  my  favorite  aunt.  In  a postscript  my  father 

added  that  Lieutenant  B — , Elizabeth’s  affianced 

husband,  had  died  in  the  city  hospital  at  Copen- 
hagen. She  herself  was  living  among  strangers. 
She  had  chosen  her  lover  when  the  family  de- 
manded of  her  that  she  give  him  up  as  a hopeless 
invalid.  They  thought  it  all  for  her  good.  Of  her 
I should  have  expected  nothing  less.  But  she  shall 
tell  the  story  of  that  herself. 

I read  the  letter  through,  then  lay  down  upon  my 
bed  and  wept.  When  I arose,  it  was  to  go  to  the 
owners  of  my  paper  with  a proposition  to  buy  it. 
They  laughed  at  me  at  first ; asked  to  see  my 
money.  As  a reporter  for  the  news  bureau  I had 


132 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


saved  up  $75,  rather  because  I had  no  time  to 
spend  it  than  with  any  definite  notion  of  what  I 
was  going  to  do  with  it.  This  I offered  to  them, 
and  pointed  out  that  the  sale  of  the  old  type,  which 
was  all  that  was  left  of  the  paper  beside  the  good- 
will, would  bring  no  more.  One  of  them,  more 
reasonable  than  the  rest  — the  one  who  had  gener- 
ally paid  the  scores  while  the  others  took  the 
tricks  — was  disposed  to  listen.  The  upshot  of  it 
was  that  I bought  the  paper  for  $650,  giving  notes 
for  the  rest,  to  be  paid  when  I could.  If  I could 
not,  they  were  not  much  out.  And  then,  again,  I 
might  succeed. 

I did ; by  what  effort  I hesitate  to  set  down  here 
lest  I be  not  believed.  The  News  was  a big 
four-page  sheet.  Literally  every  word  in  it  I wrote 
myself.  I was  my  own  editor,  reporter,  publisher, 
and  advertising  agent.  My  pen  kept  two  printers 
busy  all  the  week,  and  left  me  time  to  canvass  for 
advertisements,  attend  meetings,  and  gather  the 
news.  Friday  night  the  local  undertaker,  who 
advertised  in  the  paper  and  paid  in  kind,  took  the 
forms  over  to  New  York,  where  the  presswork  was 
done.  In  the  early  morning  hours  I shouldered 
the  edition  — it  was  not  very  large  in  those  days  — 
and  carried  it  from  Spruce  Street  down  to  Fulton 
Ferry,  and  then  home  on  a Fifth  Avenue  car.  I 
recall  with  what  inward  rage  I submitted  to  being 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


133 


held  up  by  every  chance  policeman  and  prodded 
facetiously  in  the  ribs  with  remarks  about  the  “ old 
man’s  millions,”  etc.  Once  or  twice  it  boiled  over 
and  I was  threatened  with  summary  arrest.  When 
I got  home,  I slept  on  the  counter  with  the  edition 
for  my  pillow,  in  order  to  be  up  with  the  first  gleam 
of  daylight  to  skirmish  for  newsboys.  I gathered 
them  in  from  street  and  avenue,  compelled  them  to 
come  in  if  they  were  not  willing,  and  made  such 
inducements  for  them  that  shortly  South  Brooklyn 
resounded  with  the  cry  of  “News”  from  sunrise  to 
sunset  on  Saturday.  The  politicians  who  had  been 
laughing  at  my  “ weekly  funeral  ” beheld  with 
amazement  the  paper  thrust  under  their  noses  at 
every  step.  They  heard  its  praises,  or  the  other 
thing,  sung  on  every  hand.  From  their  point  of 
view  it  was  the  same  thing : the  paper  was  talked 
of,  Their  utmost  effort  had  failed  of  that.  When, 
on  June  5,  Her  birthday,  I paid  down  in  hard  cash 
what  was  left  of  the  purchase  sum  and  hoisted  the 
flag  over  an  independent  newspaper,  freed  from 
debt,  they  came  around  with  honeyed  speeches  to 
make  friends.  I scarcely  heard  them.  Deep  down 
in  my  soul  a voice  kept  repeating  unceasingly : 
Elizabeth  is  free  ! She  is  free,  free  ! That  night, 
in  the  seclusion  of  my  den,  clutching  grimly  the 
ladder  upon  which  I had  at  last  got  my  feet,  I 
resolved  that  I would  reach  the  top,  or  die  climb- 


134 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


ing.  The  morning  sun  shone  through  my  window 
and  found  me  sleepless,  pouring  out  my  heart  to 
her,  four  thousand  miles  away. 

I carried  the  letter  to  the  post-office  myself,  and 
waited  till  I saw  it  started  on  its  long  journey.  I 
stood  watching  the  carrier  till  he  turned  the  corner ; 
then  went  back  to  my  work. 

To  that  work  there  had  been  added  a fresh  spur 
just  when  I was  at  last  free  from  all  trammels. 

The  other  strongest  of 
human  emotions  had  been 
stirred  within  me.  In  a 
Methodist  revival  — it  was 
in  the  old  Eighteenth  Street 
Church — I had  fallen 
under  the  spell  of  the 
preacher’s  fiery  eloquence. 
Brother  Simmons  was  of 
the  old  circuit-riders’  stock, 
albeit  their  day  was  long 
past  in  our  staid  commu- 
nity. He  had  all  their  power,  for  the  spirit  burned 
within  him ; and  he  brought  me  to  the  altar 
quickly,  though  in  my  own  case  conversion  refused 
to  work  the  prescribed  amount  of  agony.  Perhaps 
it  was  because  I had  heard  Mr.  Beecher  question 
the  correctness  of  the  prescription.  When  a man 
travelling  in  the  road  found  out,  he  said,  that  he  had 


Brother  Simmons. 
[The  Rev.  Ichabod  Simmons.] 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


135 


gone  wrong,  he  did  not  usually  roll  in  the  dust  and 
agonize  over  his  mistake ; he  just  turned  around 
and  went  the  other  way.  It  struck  me  so,  but  none 
the  less  with  deep  conviction.  In  fact,  with  the 
heat  of  the  convert,  I decided  on  the  spot  to  throw 
up  my  editorial  work  and  take  to  preaching.  But 
Brother  Simmons  would  not  hear  of  it. 

“No,  no,  Jacob,”  he  said;  “not  that.  We  have 
preachers  enough.  What  the  world  needs  is  con- 
secrated pens.” 

Then  and  there  I consecrated  mine.  I wish  I 
could  honestly  say  that  it  has  always  come  up  to 
the  high  ideal  set  it  then.  I can  say,  though,  that 
it  has  ever  striven  toward  it,  and  that  scarce  a day 
has  passed  since  that  I have  not  thought  of  the 
charge  then  laid  upon  it  and  upon  me. 

The  immediate  result  was  a campaign  for  reform 
that  made  the  town  stare.  It  struck  the  politicians 
first.  They  were  Democrats,  and  I was  running  a 
Democratic  paper.  I did  it  con  aniore,  too,  for  it 
was  in  the  days  of  the  scandals  of  Grant’s  second 
term,  and  the  disgrace  of  it  was  foul.  So  far  we 
were  agreed.  But  it  happened  that  the  chief  obsta- 
cle to  Democratic  success  in  the  Twenty-second 
Ward,  where  my  paper  was  located,  was  the  police 
captain  of  the  precinct,  John  Mackellar,  who  died 
the  other  day  as  Deputy  Chief  of  the  Borough  of 
Brooklyn.  Mackellar  was  a Republican  of  a pro- 


136  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

nounced  type  and  a good  deal  of  a politician 
besides.  Therefore  he  must  go.  But  he  was  my 
friend.  I had  but  two  in  the  entire  neighborhood 
who  really  cared  for  me  — Edward  Wells,  clerk  in 
a drug-store  across  the  street,  who  was  of  my  own 
age,  and  Mackellar.  Between  us  had  sprung  up  a 
strong  attachment,  and  I could  not  think  of  having 
Mackellar  removed,  particularly  as  he  had  done 
nothing  to  deserve  it.  He  was  a good  policeman. 
I told  the  bosses  so.  They  insisted ; pleaded 
political  expedience.  I told  them  I would  not 
allow  it,  and  when  they  went  ahead  in  spite  of  me, 
told  the  truth  about  it  in  my  paper.  The  Twenty- 
second  was  really  a Republican  ward.  The  atti- 
tude of  the  News  killed  the  job. 

The  Democratic  bosses  were  indignant. 

“ How  can  we  run  the  ward  with  you  acting 
that  way  ? ” they  asked.  I told  them  I did  not 
care  if  they  didn’t.  I could  run  it  better  myself,  it 
seemed. 

They  said  nothing.  They  had  other  resources. 
The  chief  of  them  — he  was  a judge  — came  around 
and  had  a friendly  talk  with  me.  He  showed  me 
that  I was  going  against  my  own  interest.  I was 
just  starting  out  in  life.  I had  energy,  education. 
They  were  qualities  that  in  politics  were  convertible 
into  gold,  much  gold,  if  I would  but  follow  him  and 
his  fortunes. 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


137 


“ I never  had  an  education,”  he  said.  “ I need 
you.  If  you  will  stick  to  me,  I will  make  you  rich.” 

I think  he  meant  it.  He  certainly  could  have 
done  so  had  he  chosen.  He  himself  died  rich.  He 
was  not  a bad  fellow,  as  bosses  go.  But  I did  not 
like  boss  politics.  And  the  bait  did  not  tempt  me. 
I never  wanted  to  be  rich.  I am  afraid  it  would 
make  me  grasping;  I think  I am  built  that  way. 
Anyhow,  it  is  too  much  bother.  I wanted  to  run 
my  own  paper,  and  I told  him  so. 

“Well,”  he  said,  “you  are  young.  Think  it 
over.” 

It  was  some  time  after  that  I read  in  a newspaper, 
upon  returning  from  a hunting  trip  to  Staten  Island, 
that  I had  been  that  day  appointed  an  interpreter 
in  my  friend  the  judge’s  court,  at  a salary  of  $100  a 
month.  I went  to  him  and  asked  him  what  it 
meant. 

“Well,”  he  said,  “we  need  an  interpreter.  There 
are  a good  many  Scandinavians  and  Germans  in 
my  district.  You  know  their  language  ? ” 

“ But,”  I protested,  “ I have  no  time  to  go  inter- 
preting police  court  cases.  I don’t  want  the  office.” 

He  pushed  me  out  with  a friendly  shoulder-pat. 
“ You  go  back  and  wait  till  I send  for  you.  We 
can  lump  the  cases,  and  we  won’t  need  you  every 
day.” 

In  fact,  they  did  not  need  me  more  than  two  or 


138 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


three  times  that  month,  at  the  end  of  which  I drew 
my  pay  with  many  qualms  of  conscience.  My  ser- 
vices were  certainly  not  worth  the  money  I received. 
Such  is  the  soothing  power  of  public  “ pap  ” : on  the 
second  pay-day,  though  I had  performed  even  less 
service,  I did  not  feel  nearly  so  bad  about  it.  My 
third  check  I drew  as  a matter  of  course.  I was 
“ one  of  the  boys  ” now,  and  treated  with  familiarity 
by  men  whom  I did  not  like  a bit,  and  who,  I am 
sure,  did  not  like  me.  But  the  cordiality  did  not 
long  endure.  It  soon  appeared  that  the  interpreter 
in  the  judge’s  court  had  other  duties  than  merely  to 
see  justice  done  to  helpless  foreigners ; among  them 
to  see  things  politically  as  His  Honor  did.  I did 
not.  A ruction  followed  speedily  — I think  it  was 
about  our  old  friend  Mackellar  — that  wound  up  by 
his  calling  me  an  ingrate.  It  was  a favorite  word 
of  his,  as  I have  noticed  it  is  of  all  bosses,  and  it 
meant  everything  reprehensible.  He  did  not  dis- 
charge me ; he  couldn’t.  I was  as  much  a part  of 
the  court  as  he  was,  having  been  appointed  under  a 
State  law.  But  the  power  of  the  Legislature  that 
had  created  me  was  invoked  to  kill  me,  and,  for 
appearance’s  sake,  the  office.  Before  it  adjourned, 
the  same  Legislature  resurrected  the  office,  but  not 
me.  So  contradictory  is  human  nature  that  by  that 
time  I was  quite  ready  to  fight  for  my  “ rights.” 
But  for  once  I was  outclassed.  The  judge  and  the 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


139 


Legislature  were  too  many  for  me,  and  I retired  as 
gracefully  as  I could. 

So  ceased  my  career  as  a public  officer,  and 
forever.  It  was  the  only  office  I ever  held,  and  I 
do  not  want  another.  I am  ashamed  yet,  twenty- 
five  years  after,  of  having  held  that  one.  Because, 
however  I try  to  gloss  it  over,  I was,  while  I held 
it,  a sinecurist,  pure  and  simple. 

However,  it  did  not  dampen  my  zeal  for  reform 
in  the  least.  That  encompassed  the  whole  range 
of  my  little  world ; nor  would  it  brook  delay  even 
for  a minute.  It  did  not  consider  ways  and  means, 
and  was  in  nowise  tempered  with  discretion. 
Looking  back  now,  it  seems  strange  that  I never 
was  made  to  figure  in  the  police  court  in  those 
days  in  another  capacity  than  that  of  interpreter. 
Not  that  I did  anything  for  which  I should  have 
been  rightly  jailed.  But  people  will  object  to  being 
dragged  by  the  hair  even  in  the  ways  of  reform. 
When  the  grocer  on  my  corner  complained  that  he 
was  being  ruined  by  “ beats  ” who  did  not  pay  their 
bills  and  thereby  compelled  him  to  charge  those 
who  did  pay  more,  in  order  that  he  might  live,  I 
started  in  at  once  to  make  those  beats  pay  up.  I 
gave  notice,  in  a plain  statement  of  the  case  in  my 
editorial  columns,  that  they  must  settle  their  scores 
for  the  sake  of  the  grocer  and  the  general  good, 
or  I would  publish  their  names.  I was  as  good  as 


140 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


my  word.  I not  only  published  the  list  of  them, 
but  how  much  and  how  long  they  owed  it,  and 
called  upon  them  to  pay  or  move  out  of  the  ward. 

Did  they  move  Well,  no!  Perhaps  it  was  too 
much  to  expect.  They  were  comfortable.  They 
stayed  to  poison  the  mind  of  the  town  against  the 
man  who  was  lying  awake  nights  to  serve  it ; in 
which  laudable  effort  they  were  ably  seconded  by 
the  corner  grocer.  I record  without  regret  the 
subsequent  failure  of  that  tradesman.  There  were 
several  things  wrong  with  the  details  of  my  cam- 
paign,— for  one  thing,  I had  omitted  to  include 
him  among  the  beats, — but  in  its  large  lines  we 
can  all  agree  that  it  was  right.  It  was  only  another 
illustration  of  the  difficulty  of  reducing  high  preach- 
ing to  practice.  Instead  of  society  hailing  me  as 
its  saviour,  I grew  personally  unpopular.  I doubt  if 
I had  another  friend  in  the  world  beside  the  two  I 
have  mentioned.  But  the  circulation  of  my  paper 
grew  enormously.  It  was  doubled  and  trebled 
week  by  week  — a fact  which  I accepted  as  public 
recognition  of  the  righteousness  of  my  cause.  I 
was  wrong  in  that.  The  fact  was  that  ours  was 
a community  of  people  with  a normally  healthy 
appetite  for  knowing  one’s  neighbor’s  business.  I 
suppose  the  thing  has  been  mistaken  before  by  inex- 
perience for  moral  enthusiasm,  and  will  be  again. 

I must  stop  here  to  tell  the  reason  why  I would 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR  I4I 

not  convict  the  meanest  thief  on  circumstantial 
evidence.  I would  rather  let  a thousand  go  free 
than  risk  with  one  what  I risked  and  shudder  yet 
to  think  of.  There  had  been  some  public  excite- 
ment that  summer  about  mad  dogs,  especially  spitz- 
dogs.  A good  many  persons  had  been  bitten,  and 
the  authorities  of  Massachusetts,  if  I remember 
rightly,  had  put  that  particular  breed  under  the 
ban  as  dangerous  at  all  times.  There  was  one 
always  prowling  about  the  lot  behind  my  office, 
through  which  the  way  led  to  my  boarding-house, 
and,  when  it  snapped  at  my  leg  in  passing  one 
day,  I determined  to  kill  it  in  the  interest  of  public 
safety.  I sent  my  office-boy  out  to  buy  a handful  of 
buckshot,  and,  when  he  brought  it,  set  about  loading 
both  barrels  of  the  fowling-piece  that  stood  in  my 
office.  While  I was  so  occupied,  my  friend  the 
drug-clerk  came  in,  and  wanted  to  know  what  I was 
up  to.  Shooting  a dog,  I said,  and  he  laughed:  — 

“ Looks  as  though  you  were  going  gunning  for 
your  beats.” 

I echoed  his  laugh  thoughtlessly  enough ; but 
the  thing  reminded  me  that  it  was  unlawful  to 
shoot  within  the  city  limits,  and  I sent  the  boy  up 
to  the  station  to  tell  the  captain  to  never  mind  if 
he  heard  shooting  around : I was  going  out  for  a 
dog.  With  that  I went  forth  upon  my  quest. 

The  dog  was  there ; but  he  escaped  before  I 


142 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


could  get  a shot  at  him.  He  dodged,  growling  and 
snapping,  among  the  weeds,  and  at  last  ran  into  a 
large  enclosed  lot  in  which  there  were  stacks  of 
lumber  and  junk  and  many  hiding-places.  I knew 
that  he  could  not  get  out,  for  the  board  fence  was 
high  and  tight.  So  I went  in  and  shut  the  door 
after  me,  and  had  him. 

I should  have  said  before  that  among  my  enemies 
was  a worthless  fellow,  a hanger-on  of  the  local 
political  machine,  who  had  that  afternoon  been  in 
the  office  annoying  me  with  his  loud  and  boisterous 
talk.  He  was  drunk,  and  as  there  were  some  peo- 
ple to  see  me,  I put  him  out.  He  persisted  in  com- 
ing back,  and  I finally  told  him,  in  the  hearing  of 
a dozen  persons,  to  go  about  his  business,  or  some 
serious  harm  would  befall  him.  If  I connected  any 
idea  with  it,  it  was  to  call  a policeman ; but  I left 
them  to  infer  something  worse,  I suppose.  Getting 
arrested  was  not  very  serious  business  with  him. 
He  went  out,  swearing. 

It  was  twilight  when  I began  my  still-hunt  for 
the  spitz  in  the  lumber  lot,  and  the  outlines  of 
things  were  more  or  less  vague  ; but  I followed  the 
dog  about  until  at  last  I made  him  out  standing  on 
a pile  of  boards  a little  way  off.  It  was  my  chance. 
I raised  the  gun  quickly  and  took  aim.  I had  both 
barrels  cocked  and  my  finger  on  the  trigger,  when 
something  told  me  quite  distinctly  not  to  shoot;  to 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


143 


put  down  the  gun  and  go  closer.  I did  so,  and 
found,  not  the  dog  as  I thought,  but  my  enemy 
whom  I had  threatened  but  an  hour  or  two  before, 
asleep  at  full  length  on  the  stack,  with  his  coat 
rolled  under  his  head  for  a pillow.  It  was  his  white 
shirt-bosom  which  I had  mistaken  in  the  twilight 
for  the  spitz  dog. 

He  never  knew  of  his  peril.  I saw  my  own  at  a 
glance,  and  it  appalled  me.  Stranger  that  I was, 
hated  and  denounced  by  many  who  would  have 
posed  as  victims  of  my  violence ; with  this  record 
against  me  of  threatening  the  man  whom  I would 
be  accused  of  having  slain  an  hour  later;  with  my 
two  only  friends  compelled  to  give  evidence  which 
would  make  me  out  as  artfully  plotting  murder 
under  the  shield  of  a palpable  invention  — for  who 
ever  heard  of  any  one  notifying  the  police  that  he 
was  going  to  shoot  a dog.^  — with  no  family  con- 
nection or  previous  good  character  to  build  a de- 
fence upon  : where  would  have  been  my  chance  of 
escape } What  stronger  chain  of  circumstantial 
evidence  could  have  been  woven  to  bring  me,  an 
innocent  man,  to  the  gallows  ? I have  often  wished 
to  forget  that  evening  by  the  sleeping  man  in  the 
lumber  lot.  I cannot  even  now  write  calmly  about 
it.  Many  months  passed  before  I could  persuade 
myself  to  touch  my  gun,  fond  as  I had  always  been 
of  carrying  it  through  the  woods. 


144 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Of  all  this  the  beats  knew  nothing.  They  kept 
up  their  warfare  of  backbiting  and  of  raising  petty 
ructions  at  the  office  when  I was  not  there,  until  I 
hit  upon  the  plan  of  putting  Pat  in  charge.  Pat 
was  a typical  Irish  coal-heaver,  who  would  a sight 
rather  fight  than  eat.  There  was  a coal  office  in 
the  building,  and  Pat  was  generally  hanging  around, 
looking  for  a job.  I paid  him  a dollar  a week  to 
keep  the  office  clear  of  intruders,  and  after  that 
there  was  no  trouble.  There  was  never  any  fight- 
ing, either.  The  mere  appearance  of  Pat  in  the 
doorway  was  enough,  to  his  great  disgust.  It  was 
a success  as  far  as  preserving  the  peace  of  the  office 
was  concerned.  But  with  it  there  grew  up,  un- 
known to  me,  an  impression  that  personally  I would 
not  fight,  and  the  courage  of  the  beats  rose  corre- 
spondingly. They  determined  to  ambush  me  and 
have  it  out  with  me.  One  wintry  Saturday  night, 
when  I was  alone  in  the  office  closing  up  the  busi- 
ness of  the  week,  they  met  on  the  opposite  corner 
to  see  me  get  a thrashing.  One  of  their  number, 
a giant  in  stature,  but  the  biggest  coward  of  the 
lot,  was  to  administer  it.  He  was  fitted  out  with 
an  immense  hickory  club  for  the  purpose,  and  to 
nerve  his  arm  they  filled  him  with  drink. 

My  office  had  a large  window  running  the  whole 
length  of  the  front,  with  a sill  knee-high  that  made 
a very  good  seat  when  chairs  were  scarce.  Only 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


145 


one  had  to  be  careful  not  to  lean  against  the  win- 
dow, It  was  made  of  small  panes  set  in  a slight 
wooden  framework,  which  every  strong  wind  blew 
out  or  in,  and  I was  in  constant  dread  lest  the 
whole  thing  should  collapse.  On  that  particular 
night  the  window  was  covered  with  a heavy  hoar- 
frost, so  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  see  from 
outside  what  was  going  on  within,  or  vice  versa. 
From  my  seat  behind  the  desk  I caught  sight 
through  the  door,  as  it  was  opened  by  a chance 
caller,  of  the  gang  on  the  opposite  corner,  with 
Jones  and  his  hickory  club,  and  knew  what  was 
coming.  I knew  Jones,  too,  and  awaited  his  debut 
as  a fighter  with  some  curiosity. 

He  came  over,  bravely  enough,  after  the  fifth  or 
sixth  drink,  opened  the  door,  and  marched  in  with 
the  tread  of  a grenadier.  But  the  moment  it  fell 
to  behind  him,  he  stood  and  shook  so  that  the  club 
fairly  rattled  on  the  floor.  Outside  the  gang  were 
hugging  their  sides  in  expectation  of  what  was 
coming. 

“Well,  Jones,”  I said,  “what  is  it.^” 

He  mumbled  something  so  tremulously  and  inco- 
herently that  I felt  really  sorry  for  him.  Jones  was 
not  a bad  fellow,  though  he  was  in  bad  company 
just  then.  I told  him  so,  and  that  it  would  be  best 
for  him  to  go  out  quietly,  or  he  might  hurt  himself. 
He  seemed  to  be  relieved  at  the  suggestion,  and 


146  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

when  I went  from  behind  the  counter  and  led  him 
toward  the  door,  he  went  willingly  enough.  But  as 
I put  my  hand  on  the  latch  he  remembered  his 
errand,  and,  with  a sudden  plucking  up  of  courage 
at  the  thought  of  the  waiting  gang,  he  raised  the 
stick  to  strike  at  me. 

Honestly,  I didn’t  touch  the  man  with  a finger. 
I suppose  he  stumbled  over  the  sill,  as  I had  some- 
times done  in  my  sober  senses.  Whatever  the 
cause,  he  fell  against  the  window,  and  out  with  him 
it  went,  the  whole  of  the  glass  front,  with  a crash 
that  resounded  from  one  end  of  the  avenue  to  the 
other,  and  brought  neighbors  and  policemen,  among 
them  my  friend  the  captain,  on  a run  to  the  store. 
In  the  midst  of  the  wreck  lay  Jones,  moaning  feebly 
that  his  back  was  broken.  The  beats  crowded 
around  with  loud  outcry. 

“ He  threw  him  out  of  the  window,”  they  cried. 
“We  saw  him  do  it!  Through  window  and  all, 
threw  him  bodily!  Did  he  not,  Jones 

Jones,  who  was  being  picked  up  and  carried  into 
my  office,  where  they  laid  him  on  the  counter  while 
they  sent  in  haste  for  a doctor,  nodded  that  it  was 
so.  Probably  he  thought  it  was.  I cannot  even 
blame  the  beats.  It  must  have  seemed  to  them  that 
I threw  him  out.  They  called  upon  the  captain  with 
vehement  demand  to  arrest  me  for  murder.  I looked 
at  him ; his  face  was  serious. 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


147 


“ Why,  I didn’t  touch  him,”  I said  indignantly. 
“He  must  have  fallen.” 

“Fallen!”  they  shouted.  “We  saw  him  come 
flying  through.  Fallen!  Look  at  the  window!” 
And  indeed  it  was  a sorry  sight. 

Dr.  Howe  came  with  his  instrument  box,  and  the 
crowd  increased.  The  doctor  was  a young  man  who 
had  been  very  much  amused  by  my  battle  with  the 
beats,  and,  though  he  professed  no  special  friendship 
for  me,  had  no  respect  for  the  others.  He  felt  the 
groaning  patient  over,  punched  him  here  and  there, 
looked  surprised,  and  felt  again.  Then  he  winked 
one  eye  at  the  captain  and  me. 

“ Jones,”  he  said,  “ get  up  ! There  is  nothing  the 
matter  with  you.  Go  and  get  sober.” 

The  beats  stood  speechless. 

“He  came  right  through  this  window,”  they  began. 
“We  saw  him  — ” 

“ Something  has  come  through  the  window,  evi- 
dently,” said  the  captain,  with  asperity,  “ and  broken 
it.  Who  is  to  pay  for  it?  If  you  say  it  was  Jones, 
it  is  my  duty  to  hold  you  as  witnesses,  if  Mr.  Riis 
makes  a charge  of  disorderly  conduct  against  him, 
as  I suppose  he  will.”  He  trod  hard  on  my  toe. 
“ A man  cannot  jump  through  another  man’s  win- 
dow like  that.  Here,  let  me  — ” 

But  they  were  gone.  I never  heard  from  them 
again.  But  ever  after  the  reputation  clung  to  me 


148  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

of  being  a terrible  fighter  when  roused.  Jones 
swore  to  it,  drunk  or  sober.  Twenty  witnesses 
backed  him  up.  I was  able  to  discharge  Pat  that 
week.  There  was  never  an  ill  word  in  my  street 
after  that.  I suppose  my  renown  as  a scrapper  sur- 
vives yet  in  the  old  ward.  As  in  the  other  case,  the 
chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  was  perfect.  No 
link  was  missing.  None  could  have  been  forged  to 
make  it  stronger. 

I wouldn’t  hang  a dog  on  such  evidence.  And  I 
think  I am  justified  in  taking  that  stand. 

The  summer  and  fall  had  worn  away,  and  no 
word  had  come  from  home.  Mother,  who  knew, 
gave  no  sign.  Every  day,  when  the  letter-carrier 
came  up  the  street,  my  hopes  rose  high  until  he  had 
passed.  The  letter  I longed  for  never  came.  It 
was  farthest  from  my  thoughts  when,  one  night  in 
the  closing  days  of  a hot  political  campaign,  I went 
to  my  office  and  found  it  lying  there.  I knew  by 
the  throbbing  of  my  heart  what  it  was  the  instant  I 
saw  it.  I think  I sat  as  much  as  a quarter  of  an 
hour  staring  dumbly  at  the  unopened  envelope. 
Then  I arose  slowly,  like  one  grown  suddenly  old, 
put  it  in  my  pocket,  and  stumbled  homeward,  walk- 
ing as  if  in  a dream.  I went  up  to  my  room  and 
locked  myself  in. 

It  lies  before  me  as  I write,  that  blessed  letter,  the 
first  love-letter  I had  ever  received ; much  faded 


I BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


149 


and  worn,  and  patched  in  many  places  to  keep  it 
together.  The  queer  row  of  foreign  stamps  climb- 
ing over  one  another  — she  told  me  afterward  that 


The  Letter. 

she  had  no  idea  how  many  were  needed  for  a letter 
to  America,  and  was  afraid  to  ask,  so  she  put  on 
three  times  more  than  would  have  been  enough  — 
and  the  address  in  her  fair  round  hand, 

Mr.  Jacob  A.  Riis, 

Editor  South  Brooklyn  News, 

Fifth  Avenue  cor.  Ninth  Street, 

Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 

North  America, 

the  postmark  of  the  little  town  of  Hadersleben, 
where  she  was  teaching  school,  the  old-fashioned 
shape  of  the  envelope  — they  all  then  and  there 
entered  into  my  life  and  became  part  of  it,  to  abide 


150  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

forever  with  light  and  joy  and  thanksgiving.  How 
much  of  sunshine  one  little  letter  can  contain  ! Six 
years  seemed  all  at  once  the  merest  breath  of  time 
to  have  waited  for  it.  Toil,  hardship,  trouble  — 
with  that  letter  in  my  keep  ? I laughed  out  loud  at 
the  thought.  The  sound  of  my  own  voice  sobered 
me.  I knelt  down  and  prayed  long  and  fervently 
that  I might  strive  with  all  my  might  to  deserve  the 
great  happiness  that  had  come  to  me. 

The  stars  were  long  out  when  my  landlord,  who 
had  heard  my  restless  walk  overhead,  knocked  to 
ask  if  anything  was  the  matter.  He  must  have 
seen  it  in  my  face  when  he  opened  the  door,  for  he 
took  a sidelong  step,  shading  his  eyes  from  the 
lamp  to  get  a better  look,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

“ Wish  you  joy,  old  man,”  he  said  heartily. 
“ Tell  us  of  it,  will  you  ? ” And  I did. 

It  is  true  that  all  the  world  loves  a lover.  It 
smiled  upon  me  all  day  long,  and  I smiled  back. 
Even  the  beats  looked  askance  at  me  no  longer. 
The  politicians  who  came  offering  to  buy  the 
influence  of  my  paper  in  the  election  were  al- 
lowed to  escape  with  their  lives.  I wrote  — I 
think  I wrote  to  her  every  day.  At  least  that  is 
what  I do  now  when  I go  away  from  home.  She 
laughs  when  she  tells  me  that  in  the  first  letter  I 
spoke  of  coming  home  in  a year.  Meanwhile,  ac- 
cording to  her  wish,  we  were  to  say  nothing  about 


I BECOME  AN  EDliOR 


151 

it.  In  the  second  letter  I decided  upon  the  fol- 
lowing spring.  In  the  third  I spoke  of  perhaps 
going  in  the  winter.  The  fourth  and  fifth  pre- 
ferred the  early  winter.  The  sixth  reached  her 
from  Hamburg,  on  the  heels  of  a telegram  announc- 
ing that  I had  that  day  arrived  in  Frisia. 

What  had  happened  was  that  just  at  the  right 
moment  the  politicians  had  concluded,  upon  the  evi- 
dence of  the  recent  elections,  that  they  could  not 
allow  an  independent  paper  in  the  ward,  and  had 
offered  to  buy  it  outright.  I was  dreadfully  over- 
worked. The  doctor  urged  a change.  I did  not 
need  much  urging.  So  I sold  the  paper  for  five 
times  what  I had  paid  for  it,  and  took  the  first  steamer 
for  home.  Only  the  other  day,  when  I was  lectur- 
ing in  Chicago,  a woman  came  up  and  asked  if  I 
was  the  Riis  she  had  travelled  with  on  a Hamburg 
steamer  twenty-five  years  before,  and  who  was  going 
home  to  be  married.  She  had  never  forgotten  how 
happy  he  was.  She  and  the  rest  of  the  passengers 
held  it  to  be  their  duty  to  warn  me  that  “ She  ” 
might  not  turn  out  as  nice  as  I thought  she  was. 

“ I guess  we  might  have  spared  ourselves  the 
trouble,”  she  said,  looking  me  over. 

Yes,  they  might.  But  I shall  have  to  put  off 
telling  of  that  till  next  time.  And  I shall  let 
Elizabeth,  my  Elizabeth  now,  tell  her  part  of  it  in 
her  own  way. 


CHAPTER  VII 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 

How  well  I remember  the  days  of  which  my 
husband  has  written  — our  childhood  in  the  old 
Danish  town  where  to  this  day,  in  spite  of  my  love 
for  America,  the  air  seems  fresher,  the  meadows 
greener,  the  sea  more  blue,  and  where  above  it  all 
the  skylark  sings  his  song  clearer,  softer,  and 
sweeter  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world!  I — it  is 
too  bad  that  we  cannot  tell  our  own  stories  with- 
out all  the  time  talking  about  ourselves,  but  it  is 
so,  and  there  is  no  help  for  it.  Well,  then,  I was  a 
happy  little  girl  in  those  days.  Though  my  own 
father,  a*  county  lawyer,  had  died  early  and  left  my 
dear  mother  without  any  means  of  support  for  her- 
self and  three  children  except  what  she  earned  by 
teaching  school  and  music,  it  did  not  make  life 
harder  for  me,  for  I had  been  since  I was  three 
years  old  with  mother’s  youngest  and  loveliest 
sister  and  her  husband.  They  were  rich  and  pros- 
perous. They  brought  me  up  as  their  own,  and 
never  had  a child  a kinder  father  and  mother  or  a 
more  beautiful  home  than  I had  with  my  uncle  and 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


153 


aunt.  Besides,  I was  naturally  a happy  child. 
Life  seemed  full  of  sunshine,  and  every  day 
dawned  with  promise  of  joy  and  pleasure.  I re- 
member often  saying  to  my  aunt,  whom,  by  the 
way,  I called  mother,  “ I am 
so  happy  I don’t  know  what 
to  do ! ” 

So  I skipped  and  danced 
about  among  the  lumber  in 
the  sight  of  Jacob  Riis,  till, 
in  sheer  amazement,  he  cut 
his  finger  off.  He  says  admi- 
ration, not  amazement,  but  I 
have  my  own  ideas  about 
that.  I see  him  yet  with  his 
arm  in  a sling  and  a defiant 
look,  making  his  way  across 
the  hall  at  dancing-school  to 
engage  me  as  his  partner.  I 
did  not  appreciate  the  compliment  in  the  least,  for 
I would  a good  deal  rather  have  had  Charles,  who 
danced  well  and  was  a much  nicer  looking  boy. 
Besides,  Charles’s  sister  Valgerda  had  told  me  in 
confidence  how  Jacob  had  said  to  Charles  that  he 
would  marry  me  when  I was  a vvoman,  or  die.  And 
was  there  ever  such  assurance?  From  the  day  I 
learned  of  this,  I treated  Jacob  with  all  tlie  coolness 
and  contempt  of  which  my  naturally  kindly  disposi- 


Elizabeth’s  Mother. 


154 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


tion  was  capable.  When  he  spoke  to  me  I answered 
him  hardly  a word,  and  took  pains  to  show  my 
preference  for  Charles  or  some  other  boy.  But  it 
seemed  to  make  no  difference  to  him. 

I was  just  seventeen  when  I received  my  first 
love-letter  from  Jacob.  Like  the  dutiful  fellow  he 
was,  he  sent  it  through  his  mother,  to  my  mother, 
who  read  it  before  giving  it  to  me.  She  handed  it 
to  me  with  the  words : “ I need  not  tell  you  that 
neither  father  nor  I would  ever  give  our  consent  to  an 
engagement  between  you  two  till  Jacob  had  some 
good  position.”  Way  down  in  my  heart  there  was  a 
small  voice  whispering:  “Well,  if  I loved  him  I 

wouldn’t  ask  anybody.”  But  the  letter  was  a beautiful 
one,  and  after  these  many  years  I know  that  every 
word  in  it  was  prompted  by  true,  unselfish  love.  I 
cried  over  it  and  answered  it  as  best  I could,  and  then 
after  a while  forgot  about  it  and  was  happy  as  ever 
with  my  studies,  my  music,  and  plenty  of  dances 
and  parties  to  break  the  routine.  Jacob  had  gone 
away  to  America. 

Before  I was  twenty  years  old  I met  one  who  was 
to  have  a great  influence  on  my  life.  He  was  a 
dashing  cavalry  officer,  much  older  than  I,  and  a 
frequent  visitor  at  our  home.  And  here  I must  tell 
that  my  own  dear  mother  had  died  when  I was  fif- 
teen years  old,  and  my  brother  and  sister  had  come 
to  live  with  us  in  Ribe.  There  was  house-room  and 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


155 


heart-room  for  us  all  there.  They  were  very  good 
to  us,  my  uncle  and  aunt,  and  I loved  them  as  if 
they  were  indeed  my  parents.  They  spared  no 
expense  in  our  bringing  up.  Nothing  they  gave 
their  only  son  was  too  good  for  us.  Our  home  was 
a very  beautiful  and  happy  one. 


Elizabeth’s  Home — “The  Castle.” 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1872  that  I met  Ray- 
mond. That  is  not  a Danish  name,  but  it  was  his. 
He  came  to  our  little  town  as  next  in  command  of  a 
company  of  gendarmes  — mounted  frontier  police. 
In  the  army  he  had  served  with  my  mother’s  brother, 
and  naturally  father  and  mother,  whose  hospitable 


156  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

home  welcomed  every  distinguished  stranger,  did 
everything  to  make  his  existence,  in  what  must  to  a 
man  of  the  world  have  been  a dull  little  town,  less 
lonely  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been.  He  had 
a good  record,  had  been  brave  in  the  war,  was  the 
finest  horseman  in  all  the  country,  could  skate  and 
dance  and  talk,  and,  best  of  all,  was  known  to  be  a 
good  and  loving  son  to  his  widowed  mother,  and 
greatly  beloved  by  his  comrades.  So  he  came  into 
my  life  and  singled  me  out  before  the  other  girls 
at  the  balls  and  parties  where  we  frequently  met. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  for  I was  not  a pretty  girl, 
I had  many  admirers  among  the  young  men  in  our 
town.  Perhaps  there  wasn’t  really  any  admiration 
about  it;  perhaps  it  was  just  because  we  knew  each 
other  as  boys  and  girls  and  were  brought  up  to- 
gether. Most  of  the  young  men  in  our  town  were 
college  students  who  had  gone  to  school  in  Ribe 
and  came  back  at  vacation  time  to  renew  old  friend- 
ships and  have  a good  time  with  old  neighbors.  I 
danced  well,  played  the  piano  well,  and  was  full  of 
life,  and  they  all  liked  to  come  in  our  house,  where 
there  were  plenty  of  good  things  of  all  kinds.  So  I 
really  ought  not  to  say  that  I,  who  frequently  cried 
over  the  length  of  my  nose,  had  admirers.  I should 
rather  say  good  friends,  who  saw  to  it  in  their  kind- 
ness that  I never  was  a wall-flower  at  a ball,  or 
lacked  favors  at  a cotillon. 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


157 


But  he  was  so  different.  The  others  were  young 
iike  myself.  He  had  experience.  He  was  a man, 
handsome  and  good,  just  such  a man  as  would  be 
likely  to  take  the  fancy  of  a girl  of  my  age.  And 
he,  who  had  seen  so  many  girls  prettier  and  better 
than  I,  singled  me  out  of  them  all ; and  I — well,  I 
was  proud  of  the  distinction,  and  I loved  him. 

How  well  I remember  the  clear  winter  day  when 
he  and  I skated  and  talked,  and  talked  and  skated, 
till  the  moon  was  high  in  the  heavens,  and  my 
brother  was  sent  out  to  look  for  me  ! I went  home 
that  evening  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world,  so  I 
thought ; for  he  had  called  me  “ a beautiful  child,” 
and  told  me  that  he  loved  me.  And  father  and 
mother  had  given  their  consent  to  our  engagement. 
Never  did  the  sun  shine  so  brightly,  never  did  the 
bells  ring  out  so  clearly  and  appealingly  in  the  old 
Cathedral,  and  surely  never  was  the  world  so  beau- 
tiful as  on  the  Sunday  morning  after  our  engage- 
ment when  I awoke  early  in  my  dear  little  room. 
Oh,  how  I loved  the  whole  world  and  every  one  in 
it ! how  good  God  was,  how  kind  and  loving  my 
father  and  mother  and  brother  and  sisters  ! How  I 
would  love  to  be  good  to  every  one  around  me,  and 
thus  in  a measure  show  my  gratitude  for  all  the 
happiness  that  was  mine ! 

So  passed  the  winter  and  spring,  with  many  prep- 
arations for  our  new  home  and  much  planning  for 


158 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


our  future  life.  In  a town  like  ours,  where  every- 
body knew  all  about  everybody  else  from  the  day 
they  were  born  till  the  day  they  died,  it  was  only 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  somebody  had  told  my 
betrothed  about  Jacob  Riis’s  love  for  me.  I had 
hoped  that  Jacob  would  learn  to  look  at  me  in  a 
different  light,  but  from  little  messages  which  came 
to  me  off  and  on  from  the  New  World,  I knew  that 
he  was  just  as  faithful  as  ever  to  his  idea  that  we 
were  meant  for  one  another,  and  that  “ I might  say 
him  No  time  and  time  again,  the  day  would  come 
when  I would  change  my  mind.”  But  in  the  first 
happy  days  of  our  engagement  I confess  that  I did 
not  think  very  much  about  him,  except  for  mention- 
ing him  once  or  twice  to  my  friend  as  a good  fellow, 
but  such  a queer  and  obstinate  one,  who  some  day 
would  see  plainly  that  I was  not  half  as  good  as  he 
thought,  and  learn  to  love  some  other  girl  who  was 
much  better. 

But  one  day  there  came  a letter  from  America, 
and  so  far  was  Jacob  from  my  thoughts  at  that 
moment  that,  when  my  lieutenant  asked  me  from 
whom  did  I think  that  American  letter  came,  I 
answered  in  perfect  good  faith  that  I could  not 
imagine,  unless  it  were  from  a former  servant  of 
ours  who  lived  over  there. 

“No  servant  ever  wrote  that  address,”  said  Ray- 
mond, dryly.  It  was  from  Jacob,  and  filled  with 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


159 


good  wishes  for  us  both.  He  listened  to  it  in 
silence.  I said  how  glad  I was  to  find  that  at  last 
he  looked  upon  me  merely  as  a friend.  “You  lit- 
tle know  how  to  read  between  the  lines,”  was  his 
sober  comment.  He  was  very  serious,  almost  sad, 
it  seemed  to  me. 

In  the  early  summer  came  the  first  cloud  on  my 
sunlit  sky.  One  evening,  when  we  were  invited  to 
a party  of  young  people  at  our  doctor’s  house,  word 
was  sent  from  Raymond  that  he  was  sick  and  could 
not  come,  but  that  I must  on  no  account  stay 
home.  But  I did.  For  me  there  was  no  pleasure 
without  him,  no,  not  anywhere  in  the  world.  He 
recovered  soon,  however ; but  after  that,  short 
spells  of  illness,  mostly  heavy  colds,  were  the  rule. 
He  was  a strong  man  and  had  taken  pride  in  being 
able  to  do  things  which  few  other  men  could  do 
without  harm  coming  to  them ; for  instance,  to 
chop  a hole  in  the  ice  and  go  swimming  in  mid- 
winter. But  exposure  to  the  chill,  damp  air  of  that 
North  Sea  country  and  the  heavy  fogs  that  drifted 
in  from  the  ocean  at  night,  when  he  rode  alone, 
often  many  miles  over  the  moor  on  his  tours  of 
inspection,  had  undermined  his  splendid  constitu- 
tion, and  before  the  summer  was  over  the  doctors 
pronounced  my  dear  one  a sufferer  from  bronchial 
consumption,  and  told  us  that  his  only  chance  lay 
in  his  seeking  a milder  climate.  I grieved  at  the 


i6o 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


thought  of  separation  for  a whole  winter,  perhaps 
longer,  and  at  his  suffering ; but  I felt  sure  that  he 
would  come  back  to  me  from  Switzerland  a well 
man. 

So  we  parted.  That  winter  we  lived  in  our  let- 
ters. The  fine  climate  in  Montreux  seemed  to  do 
him  good,  and  his  messages  were  full  of  hope  that 
all  would  be  well.  Not  so  with  my  parents.  They 
had  been  told  by  physicians  who  had  treated  Ray- 
mond that  his  case  was  hopeless ; that  he  might 
live  years,  perhaps,  in  Switzerland,  but  that  in  all 
probability  to  return  to  Denmark  would  be  fatal  to 
him.  They  told  me  so,  and  I could  not,  would  not, 
believe  them.  It  seemed  impossible  that  God  would 
take  him  away  from  me.  They  also  told  me  that 
on  no  condition  must  I think  of  marrying  him, 
because  either  I should  be  a widow  soon  after  mar- 
riage, or  else  I should  be  a sick-nurse  for  several 
years.  So  they  wished  me  to  break  the  engage- 
ment while  he  was  absent. 

This  and  much  more  was  said  to  me.  And  I, 
who  had  always  been  an  obedient  daughter  and 
never  crossed  their  will  in  any  way,  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  opposed  them  and  told  them  that  never 
should  anybody  separate  me  from  the  one  I loved 
until  God  himself  parted  us.  Mother  reminded  me 
of  my  happy  childhood,  and  of  how  much  she  and 
my  foster-father  had  done  for  me,  and  that  now 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY  l6l 

they  had  only  my  happiness  in  view  — a fact  which 
I might  not  understand  till  I was  older,  she  said, 
but  must  now  take  on  trust.  Beside  which,  Ray- 
mond would  be  made  to  feel  as  if  a load  were  taken 
off  his  mind  if  of  my  free  will  I broke  our  engage- 
ment and  left  him  free  from  any  responsibility 
toward  me.  But  all  the  time  his  letters  told  me 
that  he  loved  me  better  than  ever,  and  I lived  only 
in  the  hope  of  his  home-coming.  So  I refused  to 
listen  to  them.  They  wrote  to  him ; told  him  what 
the  doctor  said  and  appealed  to  him  to  set  me  free. 
And  he,  loyal  and  good  as  he  was,  gave  me  hack 
my  promise.  He  believed  he  would  get  well.  But 
he  knew  he  could  not  return  to  Ribe.  He  had 
resigned  his  command  and  gone  back  to  the  rank 
and  pay  of  a plain  lieutenant.  He  could  not  offer 
me  now  such  a home  as  I was  used  to  these  many 
years ; and  as  he  was  so  much  older  than  I,  he 
thought  it  his  duty  to  tell  me  all  this.  And  all  the 
time  he  knew,  oh,  so  well ! that  I would  never  leave 
him,  come  what  might,  sickness,  poverty,  or  death 
itself.  I was  bound  to  stand  by  him  to  the  last. 

That  was  a hard  winter.  Father  and  mother, 
who  could  not  look  into  my  heart  and  see  that  I 
still  loved  them  as  dearly  as  ever — I know  so  well 
they  meant  it  all  for  the  best  — called  me  ungrateful 
and  told  me  that  I was  blind  and  would  not  see 
what  made  for  my  good,  and  that  therefore  they 


M 


i62  the  making  of  AN  AMERICAN 

must  take  their  own  measures  for  my  happiness. 
So  they  offered  me  the  choice  between  giving  up 
the  one  I loved  or  leaving  the  home  that  had  been 
mine  so  long.  I chose  the  last,  for  I could  not  do 
otherwise.  I packed  my  clothes  and  said  good-by 
to  my  friends,  of  whom  many  treated  me  with  cold- 
ness, since  they,  too,  thought  I must  be  ungrateful 
to  those  who  had  done  so  much  for  me.  Homeless 
and  alone  I went  to  Raymond’s  brother,  who  had  a 
little  country  home  near  the  city  of  Copenhagen. 
With  him  and  his  young  wife  I stayed  until  one  day 
my  Raymond  returned,  much  better  apparently,  yet 
not  the  same  as  before.  Suffering,  bodily  and  men- 
tal, had  left  its  traces  upon  his  face  and  frame,  but 
his  love  for  me  was  greater  than  ever,  and  he  tried 
hard  to  make  up  to  me  all  I lost ; as  if  I had  really 
lost  anything  in  choosing  him  before  all  the  world. 

We  were  very  happy  at  first  in  the  joy  of  being 
together.  But  soon  he  suffered  a relapse,  and 
decided  to  go  to  the  hospital  for  treatment.  He 
never  left  it  again,  except  once  or  twice  for  a walk 
with  me.  All  the  long,  beautiful  summer  days  he 
spent  in  his  room,  the  last  few  months  in  bed. 
Many  friends  came  to  see  him,  and  as  for  me,  I 
spent  all  my  days  with  him,  reading  softly  to  him 
or  talking  with  him.  And  I never  gave  up  hope 
of  his  getting  better  some  day.  He  probably  knew 
that  his  time  was  short,  but  I think  that  he  did  not 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY  163 

have  the  heart  to  tell  me.  Sometimes  he  would 
say,  “ I wonder  whether  your  people  would  take 
you  back  to  your  home  if  I died.”  Or,  “ If  I 
should  die,  and  some  other  man  who  loved  you, 
and  who  you  knew  was  good  and  faithful,  should 
ask  you  to  marry  him,  you  ought  to  accept  him, 
even  if  you  did  not  love  him.”  I never  could  bear 
to  hear  it  or  to  think  of  it  then. 

One  raw,  dark  November  morning  I started  on 
the  long  walk  from  his  mother’s  house,  where  I 
had  stayed  since  he  took  to  his  bed,  to  go  and 
spend  the  day  with  him  as  usual.  By  this  time  I 
was  well  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  hospital. 
The  nurses  were  good  to  me.  They  took  off  my 
shoes  and  dried  and  warmed  them  for  me,  and 
some  brought  me  afternoon  coffee,  which  other- 
wise was  contraband  in  the  sick-rooms.  But  this 
morning  the  nurse  in  charge  of  Raymond’s  ward 
turned  her  back  upon  me  and  pretended  not  to 
hear  me  when  I bid  her  good-morning.  When  I 
entered  his  room,  it  was  to  find  the  lifeless  body  of 
him  who  only  a few  hours  before  had  bidden  me  a 
loving  and  even  cheerful  good-night. 

Oh ! the  utter  loneliness  of  those  days ; the  long- 
ing for  mother  and  home ! But  no  word  came  from 
Ribe  then.  My  dear  one  was  laid  to  rest,  with  the 
sweet,  resigned  smile  on  his  brave  face,  and  I 
stayed  for  a while  with  his  people,  not  being  quite 


164 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


able  to  look  into  the  future.  My  father  had  mean- 
while  made  provision  for  me  at  Copenhagen.  When 
I was  able  to  think  clearly,  I went  to  the  school 
in  which  my  education  had  been  “ finished  ” in  the 
happy,  careless  days,  and  through  its  managers 

secured  a position  in  Baron  von  D ’s  house, 

not  far  from  my  old  home,  but  in  the  province  that 

was  taken  from  Denmark 
by  Germany  the  winter  I 
played  in  the  lumber-yard. 
My  employers  were  kind 
to  me,  and  my  three  girl 
pupils  soon  were  the  firm 
friends  of  the  quiet  little 
governess  with  the  sad  face. 
We  worked  hard  together, 
to  forget  if  I could.  But 
each  day  I turned  my  face 
to  the  west  toward  Ribe, 
and  my  heart  cried  out  for  my  happy  childhood. 

At  last  mother  sent  for  me  to  come  to  them  in 
the  summer  vacation.  Oh,  how  good  it  was  to  go 
home  again ! How  nice  they  all  were,  and  what 
quiet  content  I felt,  though  I knew  I should  never 
forget ! The  six  weeks  went  by  like  a dream.  On 
the  last  day,  as  I was  leaving,  mother  gave  me  a 
letter  from  Jacob  Riis,  of  whom  I had  not  thought 
for  a long  while.  It  was  a letter  of  proposal,  and  I 


Elizabeth  as  I found  her  again. 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY  165 

was  angry.  I answered  it,  however,  as  nicely  as  I 
could,  and  sent  the  letter  to  his  mother.  Then 
I returned  to  my  three  pupils  in  their  pleasant 
country  home,  and  soon  we  were  busy  with  our 
studies  and  our  walks.  But  I felt  lonelier  than 
ever,  longed  more  than  ever  for  the  days  that  had 
been  and  would  never  return.  I could  not  sleep, 
and  grew  pale  and  thin.  And  ever  Raymonds 
words  about  a friend,  good  and  faithful,  who  loved 
me  truly,  came  back  to  me.  Did  he  mean  Jacob, 
who  had  surely  proved  constant,  and  like  me,  had 
suffered  much  ? He  was  lonely  and  I was  lonely, 
oh  ! so  lonely  ! What  if  I were  to  accept  his  offer, 
and  when  he  came  home  go  back  with  him  to  his 
strange  new  country  to  share  his  busy  life,  and  in 
trying  to  make  him  happy,  perhaps  find  happiness 
myself?  Unless  I asked  him  to  come,  he  would 
probably  never  return.  The  thought  of  how  glad 
it  would  make  his  parents  if  they  could  see  him 
again,  now  that  they  had  buried  two  fine  sons, 
almost  tempted  me. 

Yet  again,  it  was  too  soon,  too  soon.  I banished 
the  thought  with  angry  impatience.  But  in  the 
still  night  watches  it  came  and  knocked  again. 
Jacob  need  not  come  home  just  now.  We  might 
write  and  get  acquainted,  and  get  used  to  the  idea 
of  each  other,  and  his  old  people  could  look  forward 
to  the  joy  of  having  him  return  in  a year  or  two. 


l66  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

At  last,  one  night,  I got  up  at  two  o’clock,  sat 
down  at  my  desk,  and  wrote  to  him  in  perfect  sin- 
cerity all  that  was  in  my  mind  concerning  him,  and 
that  if  he  still  would  have  me,  I was  willing  to  go 
with  him  to  America  if  he  would  come  for  me  some 
time.  Strange  to  say,  Jacob’s  mother  had  never 
sent  the  letter  in  which  I refused  him  a second 
time.  Perhaps  she  thought  his  constancy  and 
great  love  would  at  last  touch  my  heart,  longing 
as  it  was  for  somebody  to  cling  to.  So  that  he 
got  my  last  letter  first.  But  instead  of  waiting 
several  years,  he  came  in  a few  weeks.  He  was 
always  that  way. 

And  now,  after  twenty-five  happy  years 

Elisabeth.^ 

I cut  the  rest  of  it  off,  because  I am  the  editor 
and  want  to  begin  again  here  myself,  and  what  is 
the  use  of  being  an  editor  unless  you  can  cut 
“ copy  ” ? Also,  it  is  not  good  for  woman  to 
allow  her  to  say  too  much.  She  has  already  said 
too  much  about  that  letter.  I have  got  it  in  my 
pocket,  and  I guess  I ought  to  know.  “Your  own 
Elisabeth  ” — was  not  that  enough  ? For  him,  with 
his  poor,  saddened  life,  peace  be  to  its  memory ! He 
loved  her.  That  covers  all.  How  could  he  help  it.^ 

^ That  is  right.  Up  to  this  the  printer  has  had  his  way.  Now  we 
will  have  ours,  she  and  I,  and  spell  her  name  properly.  Together  we 
shall  manage  him. 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


167 


If  they  did  not  think  I had  lost  my  senses  before, 
they  assuredly  did  when  that  telegram  reached 
Ribe.  Talk  about  the  privacy  of  the  mails  (the 
telegraph  is  part  of  the  post-office  machinery  there), 
official  propriety,  and  all  that  — why,  I don’t  sup- 
pose that  telegraph  operator  could  get  his  coat  on 
quick  enough  to  go  out  and  tell  the  amazing  news. 
It  would  not  have  been  human  nature,  certainly 
not  Ribe  human  nature.  Before  sundown  it  was 
all  over  town  that  Jacob  Riis  was  coming  home, 
and  coming  for  Elisabeth.  Poor  girl ! It  was  in 
the  Christmas  holidays,  and  she  was  visiting  there. 
She  had  been  debating  in  her  own  mind  whether 
to  tell  her  mother,  and  how ; but  they  left  her 
precious  little  time  for  debate.  In  a neighborhood 
gathering  that  night  one  stern,  uncompromising 
dowager  transfixed  her  with  avenging  eye. 

“They  say  Jacob  Riis  is  coming  home,”  she  ob- 
served. Elisabeth  knitted  away  furiously,  her  cheeks 
turning  pink  for  all  she  made  believe  she  did  not 
hear. 

“ They  say  he  is  coming  back  to  propose  to  a cer- 
tain young  lady  again,”  continued  the  dowager,  piti- 
lessly, her  voice  rising.  There  was  the  stillness  of 
death  in  the  room.  Elisabeth  dropped  a stitch,  tried 
to  pick  it  up,  failed,  and  fled.  Her  mother  from 
her  seat  observed  with  never-failing  dignity  that  it 
blew  like  to  bring  on  a flood.  You  could  almost 


l68  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

hear  the  big  cathedral  bell  singing  in  the  tower. 
And  the  subject  was  changed. 

But  I will  warrant  that  Ribe  got  no  wink  of  sleep 
that  night,  the  while  I fumed  in  a wayside  Holstein 
inn.  In  my  wild  rush  to  get  home  I had  taken  the 
wrong  train  from  Hamburg,  or  forgot  to  change,  or 
something.  I don’t  to  this  day  know  what.  I know 
that  night  coming  on  found  me  stranded  in  a little 
town  I had  never  heard  of,  on  a spur  of  the  road 
I didn’t  know  existed,  and  there  I had  to  stay,  rag- 
ing at  the  railroad,  at  the  inn,  at  everything.  In 
the  middle  of  the  night,  while  I was  tossing  sleep- 
less on  the  big  four-poster  bed,  a drunken  man  who 
had  gone  wrong  fell  into  my  room  with  the  door 
and  a candle.  That  man  was  my  friend.  I got  up 
and  kicked  him  out,  called  the  landlord  and  blew 
him  up,  and  felt  much  better.  The  sun  had  not 
risen  when  I was  posting  back  to  the  junction, 
counting  the  mile-posts  as  we  sped,  watch  in  hand. 

If  mother  thought  we  had  all  gone  mad  together, 
there  was  certainly  something  to  excuse  her.  Here 
she  had  only  a few  weeks  before  forwarded  with  a 
heavy  heart  to  her  son  in  America  Elisabeth’s  flat 
refusal  to  hear  him,  and  when  she  expected  gloom 
and  despair,  all  at  once  his  letters  overflowed  with 
a hysterical  happiness  that  could  only  hail  from  a 
disordered  mind.  To  cap  it  all,  Christmas  Eve 
brought  her  the  shock  of  her  life.  Elisabeth,  sit- 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY  169 

ting  near  her  in  the  old  church  and  remorsefully 
watching  her  weep  for  her  buried  boys,  could  not 
resist  the  impulse  to  steal  up  behind,  as  they  were 
going  out,  and  whisper  into  her  ear,  as  she  gave 
her  a little  vicarious  hug : “ I have  had  news  from 
Jacob.  He  is  very  happy.”  The  look  of  measure- 
less astonishment  on  my  mother’s  face,  as  she 
turned,  recalled  to  her  that  she  could  not  know, 
and  she  hurried  away,  while  mother  stood  and 
looked  after  her,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  I verily 
believe,  thinking  hard  things  of  a fellow-being  — 
and  of  her ! Oh,  mother ! could  you  but  have 
known  that  that  hug  was  for  your  boy ! 

Counting  hours  no  longer,  but  minutes,  till  I 
should  claim  it  myself,  I sat  straining  my  eyes  in 
the  dark  for  the  first  glimmer  of  lights  in  the  old 
town,  when  my  train  pulled  up  at  a station  a dozen 
miles  from  home.  The  guard  ran  along  and  threw 
open  the  doors  of  the  compartments.  I heard  voices 
and  the  cry:  — 

“ This  way,  Herr  Doctor ! There  is  room  in  here,” 
and  upon  the  step  loomed  the  tall  form  of  our  old 
family  physician.  As  I started  up  with  a cry  of 
recognition,  he  settled  into  a seat  with  a contented  — 

“ Here,  Overlaerer,  is  one  for  you,”  and  I was 
face  to  face  with  my  father,  grown  very  old  and 
white.  My  heart  smote  me  at  the  sight  of  his  ven- 
erable head. 


170 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


“ I was  face  to  face  with  my  father.” 

“Father!”  I cried,  and  reached  out  for  him.  I 
think  he  thought  he  saw  a ghost.  He  stood  quite 
still,  steadying  himself  against  the  door,  and  his 
face  grew  very  pale.  It  was  the  doctor,  ever  the 
most  jovial  of  men,  who  first  recovered  himself. 

“ Bless  my  soul ! ” he  cried,  “ bless  my  soul  if  here 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY  171 

is  not  Jacob,  come  back  from  the  wilds  as  large  as 
life!  Welcome  home,  boy! ’’and  we  laughed  and 
shook  hands.  They  had  been  out  to  see  a friend 
in  the  country  and  had  happened  upon  my  train. 

At  the  door  of  our  house,  father,  who  had  picked  up 
two  of  my  brothers  at  the  depot,  halted  and  thought. 

“ Better  let  me  go  in  first,”  he  said,  and,  being  a 
small  man,  put  the  door  of  the  dining-room  between 
me  and  mother,  so  that  she  could  not  see  me  right 
away. 

“What  do  you  think  — ” he  began,  but  his  voice 
shook  so  that  mother  rose  to  her  feet  at  once.  How 
do  mothers  know  ? 

“Jacob!”  she' cried,  and,  pushing  past  him,  had 
me  in  her  embrace. 

That  was  a happy  tea-table.  If  mother’s  tears  fell 
as  she  told  of  my  brothers,  the  sting  was  taken  out 
of  her  grief.  Perhaps  it  was  never  there.  To  her 
there  is  no  death  of  her  dear  ones,  but  rejoicing  in 
the  midst  of  human  sorrow  that  they  have  gone 
home  where  she  shall  find  them  again.  If  ever  a 
doubt  had  arisen  in  my  mind  of  that  home,  how 
could  it  linger  ? How  could  I betray  my  mother’s 
faith,  or  question  it  ? 

Perfectly  happy  were  we  ; but  w^hen  the  tea-things 
were  removed  and  I began  to  look  restlessly  at  my 
watch  and  talk  of  an  errand  I must  go,  a shadow  of 
anxiety  came  into  my  father’s  eyes.  Mother  looked 


1 72  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

at  me  with  mute  appeal.  They  were  still  as  far 
from  the  truth  as  ever.  A wild  notion  that  I had 
come  for  some  other  man’s  daughter  had  entered 
their  minds,  or  else,  God  help  me,  that  I had  lost 
mine.  I kissed  mother  and  quieted  her  fears. 

“ I will  tell  you  when  I come  back ; ” and  when 
she  would  have  sent  my  brothers  with  me : “ No ! 
this  walk  I must  take  alone.  Thank  God  for  it.” 

So  I went  over  the  river,  over  the  Long  Bridge 
where  I first  met  Her,  and  from  the  arch  of  which 
I hailed  the  light  in  her  window,  the  beacon  that 
had  beckoned  me  all  the  years  while  two  oceans 
surged  between  us ; under  the  wild-rose  hedge 
where  I had  dreamed  of  her  as  a boy,  and  presently 
I stood  upon  the  broad  stone  steps  of  her  father’s 
house,  and  rang  the  bell. 

An  old  servant  opened  the  door,  and,  with  a grave 
nod  of  recognition,  showed  me  into  the  room  to  the 
left,  — the  very  one  where  I had  taken  leave  of  her 
six  years  before,  — then  went  unasked  to  call  “ Miss 
Elisabeth.”  It  was  New  Year’s  Eve,  and  they  were 
having  a card  party  in  the  parlor. 

“ Oh,  it  isn’t  — ? ” said  she,  with  her  heart  in  her 
mouth,  pausing  on  the  threshold  and  looking  appeal- 
ingly at  the  maid.  It  was  the  same  who  years  be- 
fore had  told  her  how  I kept  vigil  under  her  window. 

“Yes!  it  is!”  she  said,  mercilessly,  “it’s  him,” 
and  she  pushed  her  in. 


,.  y ' ,-’v, 

%■  - * J:- ^ ,:V^,..st-  •■-  ’ 


& 


IT'':  -■-.  ^- 


'i"; 

}K':  ■ , 

^»-  • 


■> 

‘"'t 


* .-I 


/ 


Bringing  the  “Loved-up”  Flov/ers. 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


173 


I think  it  was  I who  spoke  first. 

“ Do  you  remember  when  the  ice  broke  on  the 
big  ditch  and  I had  you  in  my  arms,  so,  lifting  you 
over : 

“Was  I heavy she  asked,  irrelevantly,  and  we 
both  laughed. 

Father’s  reading-lamp  shone  upon  the  open  Bible 
when  I returned.  He  wiped  his  spectacles  and 
looked  up  with  a patiently  questioning  “ Well,  my 
boy?  ” Mother  laid  her  hand  upon  mine. 

“ I came  home,”  I said  unsteadily,  “ to  give  you 
Elisabeth  for  a daughter.  She  has  promised  to  be 
my  wife.” 

Mother  clung  to  me  and  wept.  Father  turned 
the  leaves  of  the  book  with  hands  that  trembled  in 
spite  of  himself,  and  read : — 

“ Not  unto  us,  O Lord,  not  unto  us,  but  unto  Thy 
name  give  glory  for  thy  mercy  — ” 

His  voice  faltered  and  broke. 

The  old  town  turned  out,  to  the  last  man  and 
woman,  and  crowded  the  Domkirke  on  that  March 
day,  twenty-five  years  ago  when  I bore  Her  home 
my  bride.  From  earliest  morning  tlie  street  that 
led  to  “ the  Castle  ” liad  seen  a strange  procession 
of  poor  and  aged  women  pass,  carrying  flowers 
grown  in  window-gardens  in  the  scant  sunliglit  of 
the  long  Northern  winter  — “loved  up,”  they  say 


174 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


in  Danish  for  “ grown  ” ; in  no  other  way  could  it 
be  done.  They  were  pensioners  on  her  mother’s 
bounty,  bringing  their  gifts  to  the  friend  who  was 
going  away.  And  it  was  their  flowers  she  wore  when 
I led  her  down  the  church  aisle  my  wife,  my  own. 

The  Castle  opened  its  doors  hospitably  at  last  to 
the  carpenter’s  lad.  When  they  fell  to  behind  us, 
with  father,  mother,  and  friends  waving  tearful 
good-bys  from  the  steps,  and  the  wheels  of  the  mail- 


“ Out  into  the  open  country,  into  the  wide  world, — our  life’s  journey 

had  begun.” 


coach  rattled  over  the  cobblestones  of  the  silent 
streets  where  old  neighbors  had  set  lights  in  their 
windows  to  cheer  us  on  the  way,  — - out  into  the  open 
country,  into  the  wide  world,  — our  life’s  journey 
had  begun.  Looking  steadfastly  ahead,  over  the 
bleak  moor  into  the  unknown  beyond,  I knew  in 
my  soul  that  I should  conquer.  For  her  head  was 
leaning  trustfully  on  my  shoulder  and  her  hand  was 
in  mine ; and  all  was  well. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  ; I BECOME  AN  ADVERTISING 

bureau;  on  the  “tribune” 

It  was  no  easy  life  to  which  I brought  home  my 
young  wife.  I felt  it  often  with  a secret  pang  when 
I thought  how  few  friends  I had  to  offer  her  for 
those  she  had  left,  and  how  very  different  was  the 
whole  setting  of  her  new  home.  At  such  times  I 
set  my  teeth  hard  and  promised  myself  that  some 
day  she  should  have  the  best  in  the  land.  She 
never  with  word  or  look  betrayed  if  she,  too,  felt  the 
pang.  We  were  comrades  for  better  or  worse  from 
the  day  she  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  never  was 
there  a more  loyal  and  faithful  one.  If,  when  in 
the  twilight  she  played  softly  to  herself  the  old  airs 
from  home,  the  tune  was  smothered  in  a sob  that  was 
not  for  my  ear,  and  shortly  our  kitchen  resounded 
with  the  most  tremendously  energetic  housekeeping 
on  record,  I did  not  hear.  I had  drunk  that  cup  to 
the  dregs,  and  I knew.  I just  put  on  a gingham 
apron  and  turned  in  to  help  her.  Two  can  battle 
with  a fit  of  homesickness  much  better  than  one, 
even  if  never  a word  is  said  about  it.  And  it  can  very 


75 


1/6 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


rarely  resist  a man  with  an  apron  on.  I suppose 
he  looks  too  ridiculous. 

Besides,  housekeeping  in  double  harness  was  a 
vastly  different  matter  from  going  it  single.  Not 
that  it  was  plain  sailing  by  any  manner  of  means. 
Neither  of  us  knew  anything  about  it;  but  we  were 
there  to  find  out,  and  exploring  together  was  fine 
fun.  We  started  fair  by  laying  in  a stock  of  every- 
thing there  was  in  the  cook-book  and  in  the  grocery, 
from  “ mace,”  which  neither  of  us  knew  what  was, 
to  the  prunes  which  we  never  got  a chance  to  cook 
because  we  ate  them  all  up  together  before  we  could 
find  a place  where  they  fitted  in.  The  deep  councils 
we  held  over  the  disposal  of  those  things,  and  the 
strange  results  which  followed  sometimes ! Certain 
rocks  we  were  able  to  steer  clear  of,  because  I had 
carefully  charted  them  in  the  days  of  my  bachelor- 
hood. In  the  matter  of  sago,  for  instance,  which 
swells  so  when  cooked.  You  would  never  believe 
it.  But  there  were  plenty  of  unknown  reefs.  I 
mind  our  first  chicken.  I cannot  to  this  day  im- 
agine what  was  the  matter  with  that  strange  bird. 
I was  compelled  to  be  at  the  office  that  afternoon, 
but  I sent  my  grinning  “ devil  ” up  to  the  house 
every  half-hour  for  bulletins  as  to  how  it  was  get- 
ting on.  When  I came  home  in  the  gloaming,  it 
was  sizzling  yet,  and  my  wife  was  regarding  it  with 
a strained  look  and  with  cheeks  which  the  fire  had 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


177 


dyed  a most  lovely  red.  I can  see  her  now.  She 
was  just  too  charming  for  anything.  With  the 
chicken  something  was  wrong.  As  I said,  I don’t 
know  what  it  was,  and  I don’t  care.  The  skin  was 
all  drawn  tight  over  the  bones  like  the  covering  on 
an  umbrella  frame,  and  there  was  no  end  of  fat  in 
the  pan  that  we  didn’t  know  what  to  do  with.  But 
our  supper  of  bread  and  cheese  that  night  was  a 
meal  fit  for  a king.  My  mother,  who  was  a notable 
cook,  never  made  one  so  fine.  It  is  all  stuff  about 
mothers  doing  those  things  better.  Who  cares,  any- 
how? Have  mothers  curls  of  gold  and  long  eye- 
lashes, and  have  they  arch  ways  ? And  do  they 
pout,  and  have  pet  names?  Well,  then,  are  not 
these  of  the  very  essence  of  cookery,  all  the  dry 
books  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding  ? Some 
day  some  one  will  publish  a real  cook-book  for 
young  housekeepers,  but  it  will  be  a wise  husband 
with  the  proper  sense  of  things,  not  a motherly 
person  at  all,  who  will  write  it.  They  make  things 
that  are  good  enough  to  eat,  but  that  is  not  the  best 
part  of  cooking  by  long  odds. 

There  is  one  housekeeping  feat  of  which  Elisa- 
beth says  she  is  ashamed  yet.  I am  not.  I’ll  bet  it 
was  fine.  It  was  that  cake  we  took  so  much  trouble 
with.  The  yeast  went  in  all  right,  but  something 
else  went  wrong.  It  was  not  put  to  soak,  or  to 
sizzle,  in  the  oven,  or  whatever  it  was.  Like  my 


N 


178 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


single-blessed  pancake,  it  did  not  rise,  and  in  the 
darkness  before  I came  home  she  smuggled  it  out  of 
the  house ; only  to  behold,  with  a mortification  that 
endures  to  this  day,  the  neighbor-woman  who  had 
taken  such  an  interest  in  our  young  housekeeping, 
examining  it  carefully  in  the  ash-barrel  next  morn- 
ing. People  are  curious.  But  they  were  welcome 
to  all  they  could  spy  out  concerning  our  household. 
They  discovered  there,  if  they  looked  right,  the 
sweetest  and  altogether  the  bravest  little  house- 
keeper in  all  the  world.  And  what  does  a cake 
matter,  or  a hen,  or  twenty,  when  only  the  house- 
keeper is  right  ? 

In  my  editorial  enthusiasm  for  the  new  plan  there 
was  no  doubtful  note.  The  “ beats  ” got  a rest  for 
a season  while  I transferred  my  attention  to  the 
boarding-house.  My  wife  teases  me  yet  with  those 
mighty  onslaughts  on  the  new  enemy.  Having 
clearly  made  him  out  by  the  light  of  our  evening 
lamp,  I went  for  him  with  might  and  main,  de- 
termined to  leave  no  boarding-house  through  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  or  at  least  of  South 
Brooklyn.  “Ours,”  I cried,  weekly  “to  fulfil  its 
destiny,  must  be  a nation  of  homes.  Down  with 
the  boarding-house  ! ” and  the  politicians  applauded. 
They  were  glad  to  be  let  alone.  So  were  the  beats 
who  were  behind  in  their  bills,  and  whose  champion 
I had  unexpectedly  become.  A doughty  champion. 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


179 


too,  a walking  advertisement  of  my  own  prescrip- 
tion ; for  I grew  fat  and  strong,  whereas  I had  been 
lean  and  poor.  I was  happy,  that  was  it ; very,  very 
happy,  and  full  of  faith  in  our  ability  to  fight  our 
way  through,  come  what  might.  Nor  did  it  require 
the  gift  of  a prophet  to  make  out  that  trying  days 
were  coming;  for  my  position,  again  as  the  paid 
editor  of  my  once  “ owners,”  the  politicians,  was 
rapidly  becoming  untenable.  It  was  an  agreement 
entered  into  temporarily.  When  it  should  lapse, 
what  then  ? I had  pledged  myself  when  I sold  the 
paper  not  to  start  another  for  ten  years  in  South 
Brooklyn.  So  I would  have  to  begin  life  over  again 
in  a new  place.  I gave  the  matter  but  little  thought. 
I suppose  the  old  folks,  viewing  it  all  from  over 
there,  thought  it  trifling  with  fate.  It  was  not.  It 
was  a trumpet  challenge  to  it  to  come  on,  all  that 
could  crowd  in.  Two,  we  would  beat  the  world. 

Before  I record  the  onset  that  ensued,  I must  stop 
to  tell  of  another  fight,  one  which  in  my  soul  I 
regret,  though  it  makes  me  laugh  even  now.  Non- 
resistance  never  appealed  to  me  except  in  the  evil- 
doer who  has  been  knocked  down  for  cause.  I 
suppose  it  is  wicked,  but  I promised  to  tell  the  truth, 
and  — I always  did  like  Peter  for  knocking  off  the 
ear  of  the  high  priest’s  servant.  If  only  it  had 
been  the  high  priest’s  own  ear ! And  so  when  the 
Rev.  Mr.  — no,  I will  not  mention  names ; he  was 


l80  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERfcAN 

Brother  Simmons’s  successor,  that  is  what  grieves 
me  — when  he  found  fault  with  the  News  for  being 
on  sale  Sundays,  if  I remember  rightly,  and  preached 
about  it,  announcing  that  “ never  in  the  most  anx- 
ious days  of  the  war  had  he  looked  in  a newspaper 
on  the  Sabbath  ” ; and  when  ill  luck  would  have  it 
that  on  the  same  Sunday  I beheld  his  Reverence, 
who  was  a choleric  man,  hotly  stoning  a neighbor’s 
hen  from  his  garden,  I drew  editorial  parallels  which 
were  not  soothing  to  the  reverend  temper.  What 

really  ailed  Mr. was  that  he  was  lacking  in 

common  sense,  or  he  would  never  have  called  upon 
me  with  his  whole  board  of  deacons  in  the  quiet  of 
the  Sunday  noon,  right  after  church,  to  demand  a 
retraction.  I have  no  hope  that  a sense  of  the 
humor  of  the  thing  found  its  way  into  the  clerical 
consciousness  when  I replied  that  I never  in  the 
most  exciting  times  transacted  business  on  Sunday; 
for  if  it  had,  we  would  have  been  friends  for  life. 
But  I know  that  it  “ struck  in  ” in  the  case  of  the 
deacons.  They  went  out  struggling  with  their  mirth 
behind  their  pastor’s  back.  I think  he  restrained 
himself  with  difficulty  from  pronouncing  the  major 
excommunication  against  me,  with  bell,  book,  and 
candle,  then  and  there. 

About  that  time  I saw  advertised  for  sale  a stere- 
opticon  outfit,  and  bought  it  without  any  definite 
idea  of  what  to  do  with  it.  I suppose  it  ought  to  be 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


l8l 


set  down  as  foolishness  and  a waste  of  money.  And 
yet  it  was  to  play  an  important  part  in  the  real  life- 
work  that  was  waiting  for  me.  Without  the  knowl- 
edge which  the  possession  of  it  gave  me,  that  work 
could  not  have  been  carried  out  as  it  was.  That  is 
not  to  say  that  I recommend  every  man  to  have  a 
magic  lantern  in  his  cellar,  or  the  promiscuous  pur- 
chase of  all  sorts  of  useless  things  as  though  the 
world  were  a kind  of  providential  rummage  sale.  I 
should  rather  say  that  no  effort  to  in  any  way  add  to 
one’s  stock  of  knowledge  is  likely  to  come  amiss  in 
this  world  of  changes  and  emergencies,  and  that 
Providence  has  a way  of  ranging  itself  on  the  side 
of  the  man  with  the  strongest  battalions  of  resources 
when  the  emergency  does  come.  In  other  words, 
that  to  “trust  God  and  keep  your  powder  dry  ” is 
the  plan  for  all  time. 

The  process  of  keeping  mine  dry  came  near  blow- 
ing up  the  house.  My  two  friends,  Mackellar  and 
Wells,  took  a sympathetic  interest  in  the  lantern 
proceedings,  which  was  well,  because,  being  a drug- 
gist, Wells  knew  about  making  the  gas  and  could 
prevent  trouble  on  that  tack.  It  was  before  the 
day  of  charged  tanks.  The  gas  we  made  was  con- 
tained in  wedge-shaped  rubber  bags,  in  a frame  with 
weights  on  top  that  gave  the  necessary  pressure. 
Mackellar  volunteered  to  be  the  weight,  and  sat  on 
the  bags,  at  our  first  seance,  while  Wells  superin- 


i82 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


tended  the  gas  and  I read  the  written  directions. 
We  were  getting  along  nicely  when  I came  to  a 
place  enjoining  great  caution  in  the  distribution  of 
the  weight.  “You  are  working,”  read  the  text, 
“ with  two  gases  which,  if  allowed  to  mix  in  undue 
proportion,  have  the  force  and  all  the  destructive 
power  of  a bombshell.”  Mackellar,  all  ear,  from 
fidgeting  fell  into  a tremble  on  his  perch.  He  had 
not  dreamed  of  this ; neither  had  we.  I steadied 
him  with  an  imperative  gesture. 

“ Sit  still,”  I commanded.  “ Listen ! ‘ If,  by  any 

wabbling  of  the  rack,  the  pressure  were  to  be  sud- 
denly relieved,  the  gas  from  one  bag  might  be 
sucked  into  the  other,  with  the  result  of  a disastrous 
explosion.’  ” 

We  stood  regarding  each  other  in  dumb  horror. 
Mackellar  was  deathly  pale. 

“ Let  me  off,  boys,”  he  pleaded  faintly.  “ I’ve  got 
to  go  to  the  station  to  turn  out  the  men.”  He  made 
a motion  to  climb  down. 

Wells  had  snatched  the  book  from  me.  “Jack! 
for  your  life  don’t  move ! ” he  cried,  and  pointed  to 
the  next  paragraph  in  the  directions : — 

“ Such  a thing  has  happened  when  the  frame  has 
been  upset,  or  the  weight  in  some  other  way  sud- 
denly shifted.” 

Mac  sat  as  if  frozen  to  stone.  Ed  and  I sneaked 
out  of  the  back  door  on  tiptoe  to  make  for  down- 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


183 


stairs,  three  steps  at  a time.  In  less  time  than  it 
takes  to  tell  it  we  were  back,  each  with  an  armful  of 
paving-stones,  which  we  piled  up  beside  our  ago- 
nized comrade,  assuring  him  volubly  that  there  was 
no  danger  if  he  would  only  sit  still,  still  as  a mouse, 
till  we  came  back.  Then  we  were  off  again.  The 
third  trip  gave  us  stones  enough,  and  with  infinite 
care  we  piled  them,  one  after  another,  upon  the  rack 
as  the  Captain  eased  up,  until  at  last  he  stood  upon 
the  floor,  a freed  and  saved  man.  It  was  only  then 
that  it  occurred  to  us  that  we  might  have  turned  off 
the  gas  in  the  first  place,  and  so  saved  ourselves  all 
our  anguish  and  toil. 

I can  say  honestly  that  I tried  the  best  I knew 
how  to  get  along  with  the  politicians  I served,  but 
in  the  long  run  it  simply  could  not  be  done.  They 
treated  me  fairly,  bearing  no  grudges.  But  it  is  one 
thing  to  run  an  independent  newspaper,  quite  an- 
other to  edit  an  “ oro^an.”  And  there  is  no  deceivine: 
the  public.  Not  that  I tried.  Indeed,  if  anything, 
the  shoe  was  on  the  other  foot.  We  parted  com- 
pany eventually  to  our  mutual  relief,  and  quite 
unexpectedly  I found  my  lantern  turning  the  bread- 
winner of  the  family.  The  notion  of  using  it  as  a 
means  of  advertisinsf  had  lono^  allured  me.  There 
was  a large  population  out  on  Long  Island  that 
traded  in  Brooklyn  stores  and  could  be  reached  in 
that  way.  In  fact,  it  proved  to  be  so.  I made 


1 84  the  making  of  an  AMERICAN 

money  that  fall  travelling  through  the  towns  and  vil- 
lages and  giving  open-air  exhibitions  in  which  the 
“ ads  ” of  Brooklyn  merchants  were  cunningly  inter- 
larded with  very  beautiful  colored  views,  of  which  I 
had  a fine  collection.  When  the  season  was  too  far 
advanced  to  allow  of  this,  I established  myself  in  a 
window  at  Myrtle  Avenue  and  Fulton  Street  and 
appealed  to  the  city  crowds  with  my  pictures.  So 
I filled  in  a gap  of  several  months,  while  our  people 
on  the  other  side  crossed  themselves  at  my  having 
turned  street  fakir.  At  least  we  got  that  impression 
from  their  letters.  They  were  not  to  blame.  That 
is  their  way  of  looking  at  things.  A chief  reason 
why  I liked  this  country  from  the  very  beginning  was 
that  it  made  no  difference  what  a man  was  doing,  so 
long  as  it  was  some  honest,  decent  work.  I liked 
my  advertising  scheme.  I advertised  nothing  I 
would  not  have  sold  the  people  myself,  and  I gave 
it  to  them  in  a way  that  was  distinctly  pleasing  and 
good  for  them ; for  my  pictures  were  real  work  of 
art,  not  the  cheap  trash  you  see  nowadays  on  street 
screens. 

The  city  crowds  were  always  appreciative.  In 
the  country  the  hoodlums  made  trouble  occasionally. 
We  talk  a great  deal  about  city  toughs.  In  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  they  are  lads  of  normal  impulses 
whose  resources  have  all  been  smothered  by  the 
slum  ; of  whom  the  street  and  its  lawlessness,  and 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


185 


the  tenement  that  is  without  a home,  have  made 
ruffians.  With  better  opportunities  they  might 
have  been  heroes.  The  country  hoodlum  is  oftener 
what  he  is  because  his  bent  is  that  way,  though  he, 
too,  is  not  rarely  driven  into  mischief  by  the  utter 
poverty  — aesthetically  I mean  — of  his  environment. 
Hence  he  shows  off  in  his  isolation  so  much  worse 
than  his  city  brother.  It  is  no  argument  for  the 
slum.  It  makes  toughs,  whereas  the  other  is  one 
in  spite  of  his  country  home.  That  is  to  say,  if  the 
latter  is  really  a home.  There  is  only  one  cure 
then  — an  almighty  thrashing. 

There  ought  to  be  some  ex-hoodlums  left  in  Flush- 
ing to  echo  that  sentiment,  even  after  a quarter  of  a 
century.  From  certain  signs  I knew,  when  I hung 
my  curtain  between  two  trees  in  the  little  public 
park  down  by  the  fountain  with  the  goldfish,  that 
there  was  going  to  be  trouble.  My  patience  had 
been  pretty  well  worn  down,  and  I made  prepara- 
tions. I hired  four  stout  men  who  were  spoiling  for 
a fight,  and  put  good  hickory  clubs  into  their  hands, 
bidding  them  restrain  their  natural  desire  to  use 
them  till  the  time  came.  My  forebodings  were  not 
vain.  Potatoes,  turnips,  and  eggs  flew,  not  only  at 
the  curtain,  but  at  the  lantern  and  me.  I stood  it 
until  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg,  which  was  one  of  my 
most  beautiful  colored  views,  was  rent  in  twain  by  a 
rock  that  went  clear  through  the  curtain.  Then  I 


1 86  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

gave  the  word.  In  a trice  the  apparatus  was 
gathered  up  and  thrown  into  a wagon  that  was  wait- 
ing, the  horses  headed  for  Jamaica.  We  made  one 
dash  into  the  crowd,  and  a wail  arose  from  the 
bruised  and  bleeding  hoodlums  that  hung  over  the 
town  like  a nightmare,  while  we  galloped  out  of  it, 
followed  by  cries  of  rage  and  a mob  with  rocks  and 
clubs.  But  we  had  the  best  team  in  town,  and  soon 
lost  them. 

Vengeance.^  No!  Of  course  there  was  the 
ruined  curtain  and  those  eggs  to  be  settled  for ; but, 
on  the  whole,  I think  we  were  a kind  of  village 
improvement  society  for  the  occasion,  though  we 
did  not  stay  to  wait  for  a vote  of  thanks.  I am  sure 
it  was  our  due  all  the  same. 

Along  in  the  summer  of  1877  Wells  and  I hatched 
out  a scheme  of  country  advertising  on  a larger 
scale,  of  which  the  lantern  was  to  be  the  vehicle. 
We  were  to  publish  a directory  of  the  city  of  Elmira. 
How  we  came  to  select  that  city  I have  forgotten, 
but  the  upshot  of  that  latest  of  my  business  ven- 
tures I am  not  likely  to  forget  soon.  Our  plan  was 
to  boom  the  advertising  end  of  the  enterprise  by  a 
nightly  street  display  in  the  interest  of  our  patrons. 
We  had  barely  got  into  town  when  the  railroad 
strikes  of  that  memorable  summer  reached  Elmira. 
There  had  been  dreadful  trouble,  fire  and  bloodshed, 
in  Pennsylvania,  and  the  citizens  took  steps  at  once 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


187 


to  preserve  the  peace.  A regiment  of  deputy 
sheriffs  were  sworn  in,  and  the  town  was  put  under 
semi-martial  law.  Indeed,  soldiers  with  fixed  bayo- 
nets guarded  every  train  and  car  that  went  over  the 
bridge  between  the  business  section  of  the  town 
and  the  railroad  shops  across  the  Chemung  River. 

Our  ill  luck  — or  good  ; when  a thing  comes  upon 
you  so  unexpectedly  as  did  that,  I am  rather  dis- 
posed to  consider  it  a stroke  of  good  fortune,  how- 
ever disguised  — would  have  it  that  the  building  we 
had  chosen  to  hang  our  curtain  on  was  right  at  the 
end  of  this  bridge  which  seemed  to  be  the  danger 
point.  From  the  other  end  the  strikers  looked 
across  the  river,  hourly  expected  to  make  a move- 
ment of  some  kind,  exactly  what  I don’t  know.  I 
know  that  the  whole  city  was  on  pins  and  needles 
about  it,  while  we,  all  unconscious  that  we  were  the 
object  of  shaip  scrutiny,  were  vainly  trying  to  string 
our  sixteen-foot  curtain.  There  was  a high  wind 
that  blew  it  out  over  the  river  despite  all  our  efforts 
to  catch  and  hold  it.  Twice  it  escaped  our  grasp. 
We  could  see  a crowd  of  strikers  watching  us  on 
the  other  side.  The  deputies  who  held  our  end  of 
the  bridge  saw  them  too.  We  were  strangers  ; came 
from  no  one  knew  wliere.  They  must  have  con- 
cluded that  we  were  in  league  with  the  enemy  and 
signalling  to  him.  When  for  the  third  time  our  big 
white  flag  was  wafted  toward  the  shops,  a committee 


i88 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


of  citizens  came  up  from  the  street  and  let  us  know 
in  as  few  words  as  possible  that  any  other  place 
would  be  healthier  for  us  just  then  than  Elmira. 

In  vain  we  protested  that  we  were  noncom- 
batants and  engaged  in  peaceful  industry.  Th( 
committee  pointed  to  the  flag  and  to  the  crowd  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  bridge.  They  eyed  our 
preparations  for  making  gas  askance,  and  politely 
but  firmly  insisted  that  the  next  train  out  of  town 
was  especially  suited  for  our  purpose.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  It  was  another  case  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence,  and  in  the  absence  of  backing 
of  any  kind  we  did  the  only  thing  we  could ; packed 
up  and  went.  It  was  not  a time  for  trifling.  The 
slaughter  of  a number  of  militiamen  in  a Pennsyl- 
vania round-house  that  was  set  on  fire  by  the 
strikers  was  fresh  in  the  public  mind.  But  it  was 
the  only  time  I have  been  suspected  of  sympathy 
with  violence  in  the  settlement  of  labor  disputes. 
The  trouble  with  that  plan  is  that  it  does  not  settle 
anything,  but  rakes  up  fresh  injuries  to  rankle 
indefinitely  and  widen  the  gap  between  the  man 
who  does  the  work  and  the  man  who  hires  it  done 
so  that  he  may  have  time  to  attend  to  his  own. 
Both  workmen,  they  only  need  to  understand  each 
other  and  their  common  interests  to  see  the  folly 
of  quarrelling.  To  do  that  they  must  know  one 
another;  but  a blow  and  a kick  are  a poor  intro- 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


189 


duction.  I am  not  saying  that  the  provocation  is 
not  sometimes  great;  but  better  not.  It  does  not 
do  any  good,  but  a lot  of  harm.  Besides,  if  we 
haven’t  got  to  the  point  yet  where  we  can  settle  our 
disputes  peaceably  by  discussion,  the  fault  is  not  all 
the  employers  by  any  manner  of  means. 

We  jumped  out  of  the  ashes  into  the  fire,  as  it 
turned  out.  At  Scranton  our  train  was  held  up. 
There  were  torpedoes  on  the  track;  rails  torn  up 
or  something.  For  want  of  something  better  to 
do,  we  went  out  to  take  a look  at  the  town.  At 
the  head  of  the  main  street  was  a big  crowd.  Un- 
taught by  experience,  we  bored  our  way  through 
it  to  where  a line  of  men  with  guns,  some  in  their 
shirt-sleeves,  some  in  office  coats,  some  in  dusters, 
were  blocking  advance  to  the  coal  company’s  stores. 
The  crowd  hung  sullenly  back,  leaving  a narrow 
space  clear  in  front  of  the  line.  Within  it  a man  — 
I learned  afterward  that  he  was  the  Mayor  of  the 
town  — was  haranguing  the  people,  counselling 
them  to  go  back  to  their  homes  quietly.  Suddenly 
a brick  was  thrown  from  behind  me  and  struck  him 
on  the  head. 

I heard  a word  of  brief  command,  the  rattle  of  a 
score  of  guns  falling  into  as  many  extended  hands, 
and  a volley  was  fired  into  the  crowd  point  blank, 
A man  beside  me  weltered  in  his  blood.  There 
was  an  instant’s  dead  silence,  then  the  rushing  of 


190 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


a thousand  feet  and  wild  cries  of  terror  as  the  mob 
broke  and  fled.  We  ran  with  it.  In  all  my  life  I 
never  ran  so  fast.  I would  never  have  believed 
that  I could  do  it.  Ed  teased  me  to  the  day  of 
his  death  about  it,  insisting  that  one  might  have 
played  marbles  on  my  coat-tails,  they  flew  out 
behind  so.  But  he  was  an  easy  winner  in  that  race. 
The  riots  were  over,  however,  before  they  had 
begun,  and  perhaps  a greater  calamity  was  averted. 
It  was  the  only  time  I was  ever  under  fire,  except 
once  when  a crazy  man  came  into  Mulberry  Street 
years  after  and  pointed  a revolver  at  the  reporters. 
I regret  to  say  that  I gave  no  better  account  of  my- 
self then,  and  for  a man  who  was  so  hot  to  go  to 
war  I own  it  is  a bad  showing.  Perhaps  it  was  as 
well  I didn’t  go,  even  on  that  account.  I might 
have  run  the  wrong  way  when  it  came  to  the 
scratch. 

We  were  not  yet  done  suffering  undeserved 
indignities  on  that  trip,  for  when  we  got  as  far  as 
Stanhope,  on  the  Morris  and  Essex  road,  our 
money  had  given  out.  I offered  the  station-master 
my  watch  as  security  for  the  price  of  two  tickets  to 
New  York,  but  he  bestowed  only  a contemptuous 
glance  upon  it  and  remarked  that  there  were  a good 
many  fakirs  running  about  the  country  palming  off 
“ snide  ” gold  watches  on  people.  Our  lantern  out- 
fit found  no  more  favor  with  him,  and  we  were 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE  I91 

compelled  to  tramp  it  to  the  village  in  Schooley  s 
Mountains  where  my  wife  was  then  summering 
with  our  baby.  We  walked  all  night,  and  when  at 
dawn  we  arrived,  had  the  mortification  of  being 
held  up  by  the  farmer’s  dog,  who  knew  nothing 
about  us.  He  walked  alongside  of  me  all  that  day, 
as  I was  pushing  the  baby-carriage  up  hill,  eying 
me  with  a look  that  said  plainly  enough  I had 
better  not  make  a move  to  sneak  away  with  the 
child.  Wells  went  on  to  the  city  to  replenish  our 
funds. 

And  here  I take  leave  of  this  loyal  friend  in  the 
story  of  my  life.  A better  one  I never  had.  He 
lived  to  grow  rich  in  possessions,  but  his  wealth 
was  his  undoing.  It  is  one  of  the  sore  spots  in  my 
life  — and  there  are  many  more  than  I like  to  think 
of  — that  when  he  needed  me  most  I was  not  able 
to  be  to  him  what  I would  and  should  have  been. 
We  had  drifted  too  far  apart  then,  and  the  influence 
I had  over  him  once  I had  myself  surrendered.  It 
was  so  with  Charles.  It  was  so  with  Nicolai. 
They  come,  sometimes  when  I am  alone,  and  nod 
to  me  out  of  the  dim  past:  “ You  were  not  tempted. 
You  should  have  helped!”  Yes,  God  help  me!  it 
is  true.  I am  more  to  blame  than  they.  I should 
have  helped  and  did  not.  What  would  I not  give 
that  I could  unsay  that  now!  Two  of  them  died 
by  their  own  hand,  the  third  in  Bloomingdale. 


1 92  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

I had  been  making  several  attempts  to  get  a foob 
hold  on  one  of  the  metropolitan  newspapers,  but 
always  without  success.  That  fall  I tried  the  Trib- 
une, the  city  editor  of  which,  Mr.  Shanks,  was 
one  of  my  neighbors,  but  was  told,  with  more  frank- 
ness than  flattery,  that  I was  “too  green.”  Very 
likely  Mr.  Shanks  had  been  observing  my  cam- 
paign against  the  beats  and  thought  me  a danger- 
ous man  in  those  days  of  big  libel  suits.  I should 
have  done  the  same  thing.  But  a few  weeks  after  he 
changed  his  mind  and  invited  me  to  come  on  the 
paper  and  try  my  hand.  So  I joined  the  staff  of 
the  Tribune  five  years  after  its  great  editor  had 
died,  a beaten  and  crushed  man,  one  of  the  most 
pathetic  figures  in  American  political  history. 

They  were  not  halcyon  days,  those  winter 
months  of  reporting  for  the  Tribune,  I was  on 
trial,  and  it  was  hard  work  and  very  little  pay,  not 
enough  to  live  on,  so  that  we  were  compelled  to 
take  to  our  little  pile  to  make  ends  meet.  But 
there  was  always  a bright  fire  and  a cheery  wel- 
come for  me  at  home,  so  what  did  it  matter.^  It 
was  a good  winter  despite  the  desperate  stunts 
sometimes  set  me.  Reporters  on  general  work  do 
not  sleep  on  flowery  beds  of  ease.  I remember 
well  one  awful  night  when  word  came  of  a dread- 
ful disaster  on  the  Coney  Island  shore.  Half  of  it 
had  been  washed  away  by  the  sea,  the  report  ran. 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


193 


with  houses  and  people.  I was  sent  out  to  get  at 
the  truth  of  the  thing.  I started  in  the  early  twi- 
light and  got  as  far  as  Gravesend.  The  rest  of  the 
way  I had  to  foot  it  through  snow  and  slush  knee- 
deep  in  the  face  of  a blinding  storm,  and  got  to 
Sheepshead  Bay  dead  beat,  only  to  find  that  the  ice 
and  the  tide  had  shut  off  all  approach  to  the  island. 

I did  the  next  best  thing ; I gathered  from  the 
hotel-keepers  of  the  Bay  an  account  of  the  wreck 
on  the  beach  that  lacked  nothing  in  vividness, 
thanks  to  their  laudable  desire  not  to  see  an  enter- 
prising reporter  cheated  out  of  his  rightful  “ space.” 
Then  I hired  a sleigh  and  drove  home  through  the 
storm,  wet  through  — “I  can  hear  the  water  yet 
running  out  of  your  boots,”  says  my  wife  — wet 
through  and  nearly  frozen  stiff,  but  tingling  with 
pride  at  my  feat. 

The  Tribune  next  day  was  the  only  paper 
that  had  an  account  of  the  tidal  wave  on  the  island. 
But  something  about  it  did  not  seem  to  strike  the 
city  editor  just  right.  There  was  an  unwonted 
suavity  in  his  summons  when  he  called  me  to  his 
desk  which  I had  learned  to  dread  as  liable  to  con- 
ceal some  fatal  thrust. 

“ So  you  went  to  the  island  last  night,  Mr.  Riis,” 
he  observed,  regarding  me  over  the  edge  of  the 
paper. 

“No,  sir!  I couldn’t  get  across;  nobody  could.” 


194 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


“ Eh  ! ” He  lowered  the  paper  an  inch,  and  took 
a better  look : “ this  very  circumstantial  account — ” 
“ Was  gathered  from  the  hotel-keepers  in  Sheeps- 
head  Bay,  who  had  seen  it  all.  If  there  had  been 
a boat  not  stove  by  the  ice,  I would  have  got  across 
somehow.” 

Mr.  Shanks  dropped  the  paper  and  considered 
me  almost  kindly.  I saw  that  he  had  my  bill  for 
the  sleigh-ride  in  his  hand. 

“ Right ! ” he  said.  “ We’ll  allow  the  sleigh. 
We’ll  allow  even  the  stove,  to  a man  who  owns  he 
didn’t  see  it,  though  it  is  pretty  steep.”  He 
pointed  to  a paragraph  which  described  how,  after 
the  wreck  of  the  watchman’s  shanty,  the  kitchen 
stove  floated  ashore  with  the  house-cat  alive  and 
safe  upon  it.  I still  believe  that  an  unfriendly 
printer  played  me  that  trick. 

“ Next  time,”  he  added,  dismissing  me,  “ make  them 
swear  to  the  stove.  There  is  no  accounting  for  cats.” 
But,  though  I did  not  hear  the  last  of  it  in  the 
office  for  a long  time,  I know  that  my  measure  was 
taken  by  the  desk  that  day.  I was  trusted  after 
that,  even  though  I had  made  a mistake. 

In  spite  of  it,  I did  not  get  on.  There  was  not 
a living  in  it  for  me,  that  was  made  plain  enough. 
We  were  too  many  doing  general  work.  After  six 
months  of  hard  grubbing  I decided  that  I had  better 
seek  my  fortune  elsewhere.  Spring  was  coming, 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


195 


and  it  seemed  a waste  of  time  to  stay  where  I was. 
I wrote  out  my  resignation  and  left  it  on  the  city 
editor’s  desk.  Some  errand  took  me  out  of  the 
office.  When  I returned  it  lay  there  still,  unopened. 
I saw  it,  and  thought  I would  try  another  week.  I 
might  make  a strike.  So  I took  the  note  away  and 
tore  it  up,  just  as  Mr.  Shanks  entered  the  room. 

That  evening  it  set  in  snowing  at  a great  rate. 
I had  been  uptown  on  a late  assignment,  and  was 
coming  across  Printing-House  Square,  running  at 
top  speed  to  catch  the  edition.  The  wind  did  its 
part.  There  is  no  corner  in  all  New  York  where  it 
blows  as  it  does  around  the  Tribune  building.  As  I 
flew  into  Spruce  Street  I brought  up  smack  against 
two  men  coming  out  of  the  side  door.  One  of  them 
I knocked  off  his  feet  into  a snowdrift.  He  floun- 
dered about  in  it  and  swore  dreadfully.  By  the 
voice  I knew  that  it  was  Mr.  Shanks.  I stood  pet- 
rified, mechanically  pinning  his  slouch  hat  to  the 
ground  with  my  toe.  He  got  upon  his  feet  at  last 
and  came  toward  me,  much  wrought  up. 

“Who  in  thunder  — ” he  growled  angrily  and 
caught  sight  of  my  rueful  face.  I was  thinking  I 
might  as  well  have  left  my  note  on  his  desk  that 
morning,  for  now  I was  going  to  be  discharged 
anyhow. 

“ Is  that  the  way  you  treat  your  city  editor,  Riis.^” 
he  asked,  while  I handed  him  his  hat. 


196 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


“ It  was  the  wind,  sir,  and  I was  running  — ” 

“ Running ! What  is  up  that  set  you  going  at 
that  rate  ? ” 

I told  him  of  the  meeting  I had  attended  — it  was 
of  no  account  — and  that  I was  running  to  catch 
the  edition.  He  heard  me  out. 

“ And  do  you  always  run  like  that  when  you  are 
out  on  assignments  ? ” 

“ When  it  is  late  like  this,  yes.  How  else  would 
I get  my  copy  in  ? ” 

“Well,  just  take  a reef  in  when  you  round  the 
corner,”  he  said,  brushing  the  snow  from  his  clothes. 
“ Don’t  run  your  city  editor  down  again.”  And  he 
went  his  way. 

It  was  with  anxious  forebodings  I went  to  the  office 
the  next  morning.  Mr.  Shanks  was  there  before 
me.  He  was  dictating  to  his  secretary,  Mr.  Taggart, 
who  had  been  witness  of  the  collision  of  the  night 
before,  when  I came  in.  Presently  I was  summoned 
to  his  desk,  and  went  there  with  sinking  heart. 
Things  had  commenced  to  look  up  a bit  in  the  last 
twenty-four  hours,  and  I had  hoped  yet  to  make  it 
go.  Now,  it  was  all  over. 

“ Mr.  Riis,”  he  began  stiffiy,  “ you  knocked  ,me 
down  last  night  without  cause.” 

“ Yes,  sir ! But  I — ” 

“ Into  a snowdrift,”  he  went  on,  unheeding.  “ Nice 
thing  for  a reporter  to  do  to  his  commanding  officer. 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


197 


Now,  sir!  this  will  not  do.  We  must  find  some  way 
of  preventing  it  in  the  future.  Our  man  at  Police 
Headquarters  has  left.  I am  going  to  send  you  up 
there  in  his  place.  You  can  run  there  all  you  want 
to,  and  you  will  want  to  all  you  can.  It  is  a place 


Mulberry  Street. 

that  needs  a man  who  will  run  to  get  his  copy  in 
and  tell  the  truth  and  stick  to  it.  You  will  find 
plenty  of  fighting  there.  But  don’t  go  knocking 
people  down  — unless  you  have  to.” 

And  with  this  kind  of  an  introduction  I was  sent 
off  to  Mulberry  Street,  where  I was  to  find  my  life- 
work.  It  is  twenty-three  years  since  the  day  I took 


198  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

my  first  walk  up  there  and  looked  over  the  ground 
that  has  since  become  so  familiar  to  me.  I knew  it 
by  reputation  as  the  hardest  place  on  the  paper,  and 
it  was  in  no  spirit  of  exultation  that  I looked  out 
upon  the  stirring  life  of  the  block.  If  the  truth  be 
told,  I think  I was,  if  anything,  a bit  afraid.  The 
story  of  the  big  fight  the  Tribmie  reporter  was  hav- 
ing on  his  hands  up  there  with  all  the  other  papers 
had  long  been  echoing  through  newspaperdom,  and 
I was  not  deceived.  But,  after  all,  I had  been  doing 
little  else  myself,  and,  having  given  no  offence,  my 
cause  would  be  just.  In  which  case,  what  had  I to 
fear  ? So  in  my  soul  I commended  my  work  and 
myself  to  the  God  of  battles  who  gives  victory,  and 
took  hold. 

Right  here,  lest  I make  myself  appear  better  than 
I am,  I want  to  say  that  I am  not  a praying  man  in 
the  sense  of  being  versed  in  the  language  of  prayer 
or  anything  of  that  kind.  I wish  I were.  So,  I 
might  have  been  better  able  to  serve  my  unhappy 
friends  when  they  needed  me.  Indeed,  those  who 
have  known  me  under  strong  provocation  — provo- 
cation is  very  strong  in  Mulberry  Street — would 
scorn  such  an  intimation,  and,  I am  sorry  to  say, 
with  cause.  I was  once  a deacon,  but  they  did  not 
often  let  me  lead  in  prayer.  My  supplications  ordi- 
narily take  the  form  of  putting  the  case  plainly  to 
Him  who  is  the  source  of  all  right  and  all  justice. 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


199 


and  leaving  it  so.  If  I were  to  find  that  I could  not 
do  that,  I should  decline  to  go  into  the  fight,  or,  if  I 
had  to,  should  feel  that  I were  to  be  justly  beaten. 
In  all  the  years  of  my  reporting  I have  never 
omitted  this  when  anything  big  was  on  foot, 
whether  a fire,  a murder,  a robbery,  or  whatever 
might  come  in  the  way  of  duty,  and  I have  never 
heard  that  my  reports  were  any  the  worse  for  it. 
I know  they  were  better.  Perhaps  the  notion  of 
a police  reporter  praying  that  he  may  write  a good 
murder  story  may  seem  ludicrous,  even  irreverent, 
to  some  people.  But  that  is  only  because  they  fail 
to  make  out  in  it  the  human  element  which  digni- 
fies anything  and  rescues  it  from  reproach.  Unless 
I could  go  to  my  story  that  way  I would  not  go  to 
it  at  all.  I am  very  sure  that  there  is  no  irrever- 
ence in  it  — just  the  reverse. 

So  I dived  in.  But  before  I did  it  I telegraphed 
to  my  wife  : — 

“ Got  staff  appointment.  Police  Headquarters. 
$25  a week.  Hurrah  ! ” 

I knew  it  would  make  her  happy. 


CHAPTER  IX 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 

It  was  well  that  I stopped  to  make  explanations 
before  I took  hold  in  my  new  office.  Mighty  little 
time  was  left  me  after.  What  the  fight  was  about 
to  which  I fell  heir  I have  long  since  forgotten. 
Mulberry  Street  in  those  days  was  prone  to  such 
things.  Somebody  was  always  fighting  somebody 
else  for  some  fancied  injury  or  act  of  bad  faith  in 
the  gathering  of  the  news.  For  the  time  being 
they  all  made  common  cause  against  the  reporter 
of  the  Tribtuie,  who  also  represented  the  local 
bureau  of  the  Associated  Press.  They  hailed  the 
coming  of  “ the  Dutchman  ” with  shouts  of  derision, 
and  decided,  I suppose,  to  finish  me  off  while  I was 
new.  So  they  pulled  themselves  together  for  an 
effort,  and  within  a week  I was  so  badly  “ beaten  ” 
in  the  Police  Department,  in  the  Health  Depart- 
ment, in  the  Fire  Department,  the  Coroner’s  office, 
and  the  Excise  Bureau,  all  of  which  it  was  my  task 
to  cover,  that  the  manager  of  the  Press  Bureau 
called  me  down  to  look  me  over.  He  reported  to 
the  Tribune  that  he  did  not  think  I would  do. 


200 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


201 


But  Mr.  Shanks  told  him  to  wait  and  see.  In  some 
way  I heard  of  it,  and  that  settled  it  that  I was  to 
win.  I might  be  beaten  in  many  a battle,  but  how 
could  I lose  the  fight  with  a general  like  that  ? 

And,  indeed,  in  another  week  it  was  their  turn 
to  be  called  down  to  give  an  account  of  themselves. 
The  “ Dutchman  ” had  stolen  a march  on  them. 
I suppose  it  was  to  them  a very  astounding  thing, 
yet  it  was  perfectly  simple.  Their  very  strength, 
as  they  held  it  to  be,  was  their  weakness.  They 
were  a dozen  against  one,  and  each  one  of  them 
took  it  for  granted  that  the  other  eleven  were 
attending  to  business  and  that  he  need  not  exert 
himself  overmuch.  A good  many  years  after,  I had 
that  experience  as  a member  of  a board  of  twelve 
trustees,  each  one  of  whom  had  lent  his  name  but 
not  his  work  to  the  cause  we  were  supposed  to 
represent.  When  we  met  at  the  end  of  that  season, 
and  heard  how  narrow  had  been  the  escape  from 
calamity  due  to  utter  lack  of  management,  a good 
Methodist  brother  put  in  words  what  we  were  each 
and  every  one  of  us  thinking  about. 

“Brethren,”  he  said,  “ so  far  as  I can  make  out, 
but  for  the  interposition  of  a merciful  Providence 
we  should  all  be  in  jail,  as  we  deserve.  Let  us 
pray ! ” 

I think  that  prayer  was  more  than  lip-service 
with  most  of  us.  I know  that  I registered  a vow 


202 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


that  I would  never  again  be  trustee  of  anything  with- 
out trusteeing  it  in  fact.  And  I have  kept  the  vow, 
But  to  return  to  Mulberry  Street.  The  immedi- 
ate result  of  this  first  victory  of  mine  was  a whirl- 
wind onslaught  on  me,  fiercer  than  anything  that 

had  gone  before.  I 
expected  it  and  met 
it  as  well  as  I could, 
holding  my  own  after 
a fashion.  When, 
from  sheer  exhaus- 
tion, they  let  up  to 
see  if  I was  still 
there,  I paid  them 
back  with  two  or 
three  “ beats  ” I had 
stored  up  for  the  oc- 
casion. And  then  we 
settled  down  to  the 
ten  years’  war  for  the 
mastery,  out  of  which  I was  to  come  at  last  fairly 
the  victor,  and  with  the  only  renown  I have  ever 
coveted  or  cared  to  have,  that  of  being  the  “ boss 
reporter  ” in  Mulberry  Street.  I have  so  often  been 
asked  in  later  years  what  my  work  was  there,^  and 

^I  say  was;  only  in  the  last  twelvemonth  have  I grasped  Mr. 
Dana’s  meaning  in  calling  his  reporters  his  “ young  men.”  They  need 
to  be  that.  I,  for  one,  have  grown  too  old. 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


203 


how  I found  there  the  point  of  view  from  which 
I wrote  my  books,  that  I suppose  I shall  have  to 
go  somewhat  into  the  details  of  it. 

The  police  reporter  on  a newspaper,  then,  is  the 
one  who  gathers  and  handles  all  the  news  that 
means  trouble  to  some  one:  the  murders,  fires, 
suicides,  robberies,  and  all  that  sort,  before  it  gets 
into  court.  He  has  an  office  in  Mulberry  Street, 
across  from  Police  Headquarters,  where  he  receives 
the  first  intimation  of  the  trouble  through  the  pre- 
cinct reports.  Or  else  he  does  not  receive  it.  The 
police  do  not  like  to  tell  the  public  of  a robbery 
or  a safe  “ cracking,”  for  instance.  They  claim  that 
it  interferes  with  the  ends  of  justice.  What  they 
really  mean  is  that  it  brings  ridicule  or  censure 
upon  them  to  have  the  public  know  that  they  do 
not  catch  every  thief,  or  even  most  of  them.  They 
would  like  that  impression  to  go  out,  for  police 
work  is  largely  a game  of  bluff.  Here,  then,  is 
an  opportunity  for  the  “ beats  ” I speak  of.  The 
reporter  who,  through  acquaintance,  friendship,  or 
natural  detective  skill,  can  get  that  which  it  is  the 
policy  of  the  police  to  conceal  from  him,  wins.  It 
may  seem  to  many  a reader  a matter  of  no  great 
importance  if  a man  should  miss  a safe-burglary 
for  his  paper;  but  reporting  is  a business,  a very 
exacting  one  at  that,  and  if  he  will  stop  a moment 
and  think  what  it  is  he  instinctively  looks  at  first  in 


204 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


his  morning  paper,  even  if  he  has  schooled  himself 
not  to  read  it  through,  he  will  see  it  differently. 
The  fact  is  that  it  is  all  a great  human  drama  in 
which  these  things  are  the  acts  that  mean  grief, 
suffering,  revenge  upon  somebody,  loss  or  gain. 
The  reporter  who  is  behind  the  scenes  sees  the 
tumult  of  passions,  and  not  rarely  a human  heroism 
that  redeems  all  the  rest.  It  is  his  task  so  to  por- 
tray it  that  we  can  all  see  its  meaning,  or  at  all 
events  catch  the  human  drift  of  it,  not  merely  the 
foulness  and  the  reek  of  blood.  If  he  can  do  that, 
he  has  performed  a signal  service,  and  his  murder 
story  may  easily  come  to  speak  more  eloquently  to 
the  minds  of  thousands  than  the  sermon  preached 
to  a hundred  in  the  church  on  Sunday. 

Of  the  advantages  that  smooth  the  way  to  news- 
getting I had  none.  I was  a stranger,  and  I was 
never  distinguished  for  detective  ability.  But  good 
hard  work  goes  a long  way  toward  making  up  for 
lack  of  genius ; and  I mentioned  only  one  of  the 
opportunities  for  getting  ahead  of  my  opponents. 
They  were  lying  all  about  us.  Any  seemingly  inno- 
cent slip  sent  out  from  the  police  telegraph  office 
across  the  way  recording  a petty  tenement-house  fire 
might  hide  a fire-bug,  who  always  makes  shuddering 
appeal  to  our  fears;  the  finding  of  John  Jones  sick 
and  destitute  in  the  street  meant,  perhaps,  a story 
full  of  the  deepest  pathos.  Indeed,  I can  think  of  a 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


205 


“ In  which  lay  dying  a French  nobleman  of  proud  and  ancient  name.” 


dozen  now  that  did.  I see  before  me,  as  though  it 
were  yesterday,  the  desolate  Wooster  Street  attic, 
with  wind  and  rain  sweeping  through  the  bare  room 
in  which  lay  dying  a French  nobleman  of  proud  and 
ancient  name,  the  last  of  his  house.  He  was  one  of 
my  early  triumphs.  New  York  is  a queer  town. 
The  grist  of  every  hopper  in  the  world  comes  to  it. 
I shall  not  soon  forget  the  gloomy  tenement  in  Clin- 
ton Street  where  that  day  a poor  shoemaker  had 
shot  himself.  His  name,  Struensee,  had  brought 
me  over.  I knew  there  could  not  be  such  another. 
That  was  where  my  Danish  birth  stood  me  in  good 
stead.  I knew  the  story  of  Christian  VII.’s  master- 
ful minister;  of  his  fall  and  trial  on  the  charge  of 


206 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


supplanting  his  master  in  the  affections  of  the  young 
and  beautiful  Queen,  sister  of  George  III.  Very 
old  men  told  yet,  when  I was  a boy,  of  that  dark 
day  when  the  proud  head  fell  under  the  execu- 
tioner’s axe  in  the  castle  square  — dark  for  the 
people  whose  champion  Struensee  had  tried  to  be. 
My  mother  was  born  and  reared  in  the  castle  at 
Elsinore  where  the  unhappy  Queen,  disgraced  and 
an  outcast,  wrote  on  the  window-pane  of  her  prison 
cell : “ Lord,  keep  me  innocent ; make  others  great.” 
It  was  all  a familiar  story  to  me,  and  when  I sat  be- 
side that  dead  shoemaker  and,  looking  through  his 
papers,  read  there  that  the  tragedy  of  a hundred 
years  before  was  his  family  story,  I knew  that  I held 
in  my  hands  the  means  of  paying  off  all  accumu- 
lated scores  to  date. 

Did  I settle  in  full  ? Yes,  I did.  I was  in  a fight 
not  of  my  own  choosing,  and  I was  well  aware  that 
my  turn  was  coming.  I hit  as  hard  as  I knew  how, 
and  so  did  they.  When  I speak  of  “ triumphs,”  it 
is  professionally.  There  was  no  hard-heartedness 
about  it.  We  did  not  gloat  over  the  misfortunes 
we  described.  We  were  reporters,  not  ghouls. 
There  lies  before  me  as  I write  a letter  that  came 
in  the  mail  this  afternoon  from  a woman  who  bit- 
terly objects  to  my  diagnosis  of  the  reporter’s  as  the 
highest  and  noblest  of  all  callings.  She  signs  her- 
self “ a sufferer  from  reporters’  unkindness,”  and 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET  20/ 

tells  me  how  in  the  hour  of  her  deep  affliction  they 
have  trodden  upon  her  heart.  Can  I not,  she  asks, 
encourage  a public  sentiment  that  will  make  such 
reporting  disreputable  ? All  my  life  I have  tried  to 
do  so,  and,  in  spite  of  the  evidence  of  yellow  journal- 
ism to  the  contrary,  I think  we  are  coming  nearer  to 
that  ideal ; in  other  words,  we  are  emerging  from  sav- 
agery. Striving  madly  for  each  other’s  scalps  as  we 
were,  I do  not  think  that  we  scalped  any  one  else  un- 
justly. I know  I did  not.  They  were  not  particularly 
scrupulous,  I am  bound  to  say.  In  their  rage  and 
mortification  at  having  underestimated  the  enemy, 
they  did  things  unworthy  of  men  and  of  reporters. 
They  stole  my  slips  in  the  telegraph  office  and  substi- 
tuted others  that  sent  me  off  on  a wild-goose  chase  to 
the  farthest  river  wards  in  the  midnight  hour,  think- 
ing so  to  tire  me  out.  But  they  did  it  once  too  often. 
I happened  on  a very  important  case  on  such  a trip, 
and  made  the  most  of  it,  telegraphing  down  a col- 
umn or  more  about  it  from  the  office,  while  the 
enemy  watched  me  helplessly  from  the  Headquarters’ 
stoop  across  the  way.  They  were  gathered  there, 
waiting  for  me  to  come  back,  and  received  me  with 
loud  and  mocking  ahems  ! and  respectfully  sympa- 
thetic toots  on  a tin  horn,  kept  for  that  purpose. 
Its  voice  had  a mournful  strain  in  it  that  was  espe- 
cially exasperating.  But  when,  without  paying  any 
attention  to  them,  I busied  myself  with  the  wire  at 


208 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


once,  and  kept  at  it  right  along,  they  scented 
trouble,  and  consulted  anxiously  among  themselves. 
My  story  finished,  I went  out  and  sat  on  my  own 
stoop  and  said  ahem ! in  my  turn  in  as  many  aggra- 
vating ways  as  I could.  They  knew  they  were 
beaten  then,  and  shortly  they  had  confirmation  of 
it.  The  report  came  in  from  the  precinct  at  2 a.m., 
but  it  was  then  too  late  for  their  papers,  for  there 
were  no  telephones  in  those  days.  I had  the  only 
telegraph  wire.  After  that  they  gave  up  such  tricks, 
and  the  Tribtme  saved  many  cab  fares  at  night ; for 
there  were  no  elevated  railroads,  either,  in  those 
days,  or  electric  or  cable  cars. 

On  the  other  hand,  this  enterprise  of  ours  was 
often  of  the  highest  service  to  the  public.  When, 
for  instance,  in  following  up  a case  of  destitution 
and  illness  involving  a whole  family,  I,  tracing  back 
the  origin  of  it,  came  upon  a party  at  which  ham 
sandwiches  had  been  the  bill  of  fare,  and  upon  look- 
ing up  the  guests,  found  seventeen  of  the  twenty- 
five  sick  with  identical  symptoms,  it  required  no, 
medical  knowledge,  but  merely  the  ordinary  infor- 
mation and  training  of  the  reporter,  to  diagnose 
trichinosis.  The  seventeen  had  half  a dozen  differ- 
ent doctors,  who,  knowing  nothing  of  party  or  ham, 
were  helpless,  and  saw  only  cases  of  rheumatism  or 
such  like.  I called  as  many  of  them  as  I could 
reach  together  that  night,  introduced  them  to  one 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


209 


another  and  to  my  facts,  and  asked  them  what  they 
thought  then.  What  they  thought  made  a sensa- 
tion in  my  paper  the  next  morning,  and  practically 
decided  the  fight,  though  the  enemy  was  able  to 
spoil  my  relish  for  the  ham  by  reporting  the  poison- 
ing of  a whole  family  with  a dish  of  depraved  smelt 
while  I was  chasing  up  the  trichinae.  However,  I 
had  my  revenge.  I walked  in  that  afternoon  upon 
Dr.  Cyrus  Edson  at  his  microscope  surrounded  by 
my  adversaries,  who  besought  him  to  deny  my  story. 
The  doctor  looked  quizzically  at  them  and  made 
reply : — 

“ I would  like  to  oblige  you,  boys,  but  how  I can 
do  it  with  those  fellows  squirming  under  the  micro- 
scope I don’t  see.  I took  them  from  the  flesh  of 
one  of  the  patients  who  was  sent  to  Trinity  Hospi- 
tal to-day.  Look  at  them  yourself.” 

He  winked  at  me,  and,  peering  into  his  micro- 
scope, I saw  my  diagnosis  more  than  confirmed. 
There  were  scores  of  the  little  beasts  curled  up  and 
burrowing  in  the  speck  of  tissue.  The  unhappy 
patient  died  that  week. 

We  had  our  specialties  in  this  contest  of  wits. 
One  was  distinguished  as  a sleuth.  He  fed  on 
detective  mysteries  as  a cat  on  a chicken-bone.  He 
thought  them  out  by  day  and  dreamed  them  out 
by  night,  to  the  great  exasperation  of  the  official 
detectives,  with  whom  their  solution  was  a com- 


210 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


mercial,  not  in  the  least  an  intellectual,  affair. 
They  solved  them  on  the  plane  of  the  proverbial 
lack  of  honor  among  thieves,  by  the  formula,  “You 
scratch  my  back,  and  I’ll  scratch  yours.” 

Another  came  out  strong  on  fires.  He  knew  the 
history  of  every  house  in  town  that  ran  any  risk  of 
being  burned;  knew  every  fireman;  and  could  tell 
within  a thousand  dollars,  more  or  less,  what  was 
the  value  of  the  goods  stored  in  any  building  in  the 
dry-goods  district,  and  for  how  much  they  were 
insured.  If  he  couldn’t,  he  did  anyhow,  and  his 
guesses  often  came  near  the  fact,  as  shown  in  the 
final  adjustment.  He  sniffed  a firebug  from  afar, 
and  knew  without  asking  how  much  salvage  there 
was  in  a bale  of  cotton  after  being  twenty-four 
hours  in  the  fire.  He  is  dead,  poor  fellow.  In  life 
he  was  fond  of  a joke,  and  in  death  the  joke  clung 
to  him  in  a way  wholly  unforeseen.  The  firemen 
in  the  next  block,  with  whom  he  made  his  head- 
quarters when  off  duty,  so  that  he  might  always  be 
within  hearing  of  the  gong,  wished  to  give  some 
tangible  evidence  of  their  regard  for  the  old  re- 
porter, but,  being  in  a hurry,  left  it  to  the  florist, 
who  knew  him  well,  to  choose  the  design.  He  hit 
upon  a floral  fire-badge  as  the  proper  thing,  and 
thus  it  was  that  when  the  company  of  mourners 
was  assembled,  and  the  funeral  service  in  progress, 
there  arrived  and  was  set  upon  the  coffin,  in  the 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


21 1 


view  of  all,  that  triumph  of  the  florist’s  art,  a shield 
of  white  roses,  with  this  legend  written  across  it 
in  red  immortelles : “ Admit  within  Are  lines  only.” 
It  was  shocking,  but  irresistible.  It  brought  down 
even  the  house  of  mourning. 

The  incident  recalls  another,  which  at  the  time 
caused  me  no  little  astonishment.  A telegram 
from  Lonor  Branch  had  announced  the  drownins: 
of  a young  actor,  I think,  whose  three  sisters  lived 
over  on  Eighth  Avenue.  I had  gone  to  the  house 
to  learn  about  the  accident,  and  found  them  in  the 
first  burst  of  grief,  dissolved  in  tears.  It  was  a 
very  hot  July  day,  and  to  guard  against  sunstroke 
I had  put  a cabbage-leaf  in  my  hat.  On  the  way 
over  I forgot  all  about  it,  and  the  leaf,  getting  limp, 
settled  down  snugly  upon  my  head  like  a ridiculous 
green  skullcap.  Knowing  nothing  of  this,  I was 
wholly  unprepared  for  the  effect  my  entrance,  hat- 
less, had  upon  the  weeping  family.  The  young 
ladies  ceased  crying,  stared  wildly,  and  then,  to  my 
utter  bewilderment,  broke  into  hysterical  laughter. 
For  the  moment  I thought  they  had  gone  mad.  It 
was  only  when  in  my  perplexity  I put  up  my  hand 
to  rub  my  head,  that  I came  upon  the  cause  of  the 
strange  hilarity.  For  years  afterward  the  thought 
of  it  had  the  same  effect  upon  me  that  the  cabbage- 
leaf  produced  so  unexpectedly  in  that  grief-stricken 
home. 


212 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


I might  fill  many  pages  with  such  stories,  but  I 
shall  not  attempt  it.  Do  they  seem  mean  and 
trifling  in  the  retrospect.^  Not  at  all.  They  were 
my  work,  and  I liked  it.  And  I got  a good  deal 
of  fun  out  of  it  from  time  to  time.  I mind  Dr. 
Bryant’s  parrot  story.  Dr.  Joseph  D.  Bryant  was 
Health  Commissioner  at  the  time,  and  though  we 
rarely  agreed  about  anything  — there  is  something 
curious  about  that,  that  the  men  I have  thought 
most  of  were  quite  often  those  with  whom  I dis- 
agreed ordinarily  about  everything — I can  say 
truly  that  there  have  been  few  better  Health  Com- 
missioners, and  none  for  whom  I have  had  a more 
hearty  respect  and  liking.  Dr.  Bryant  especially 
hated  reporters.  He  was  built  that  way;  he  dis- 
liked notoriety  for  himself  and  his  friends,  and 
therefore,  when  one  of  these  complained  of  a neigh- 
bor’s parrot  to  the  Health  Department,  he  gave 
strict  orders  that  the  story  was  to  be  guarded  from 
the  reporters,  and  particularly  from  me,  who  had 
grieved  him  more  than  once  by  publishing  things 
which,  in  his  opinion,  I ought  to  have  said  nothing 
about.  I heard  of  it  within  the  hour,  and  promptly 
set  my  wit  against  the  Doctor’s  to  unearth  the 
parrot. 

But  it  would  not  come  out.  Dig  as  I might,  I 
could  not  get  at  it.  I tried  every  way,  while  the 
Doctor  laughed  in  his  sleeve  and  beamed  upon  me. 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


213 


At  last,  in  desperation,  I hit  upon  a bold  plan.  I 
would  oet  it  out  of  the  Doctor  himself.  I knew  his 
hours  for  coming  to  Sanitary  Headquarters  — from 
his  clinics,  I suppose.  He  always  came  up  the  stairs 


Our  Office  — my  Partner,  Mr.  Ensign  at  the  Desk,  I in  the  Corner, 

absorbed  in  thought,  noticing  nothing  that  passed. 
I waylaid  him  in  the  turn  of  the  dark  hall,  and  be- 
fore he  had  time  to  think  plumped  at  him  an  — 

“ Oh,  Doctor!  about  that  parrot  of  your  friend  — 
er-er,  oh  1 what  was  his  name  ? ” 

“ Alley,”  said  the  Doctor,  mechanically,  and  went 
in,  only  half  hearing  what  I said.  I made  for  the 
city  directory.  There  were  four  Alleys  in  it.  In 
an  hour  I had  located  my  man,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing’s Tribune  had  a column  account  of  the  tragedy 
of  the  parrot. 


214 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


The  Doctor  was  very  angry.  He  went  to  Head- 
quarters and  summoned  me  solemnly  before  the 
assembled  Board.  The  time  had  come,  he  said,  to 
have  an  explanation  from  me  as  to  who  it  was  that 
gave  me  information  against  orders  and  the  public 
interest.  Evidently  there  was  a traitor  in  camp,  by 
whatever  means  I had  procured  his  treachery. 

In  vain  did  I try  to  show  the  Doctor  how  unpro- 
fessional my  conduct  would  be  m betraying  my 
informant,  even  how  contemptible.  He  was  inexo- 
rable. This  time  I should  not  escape,  nor  my  accom- 
plice either.  Out  with  it,  and  at  once.  With  a 
show  of  regretful  resignation  I gave  in.  For  once 
I would  break  my  rule  and  “ tell  on  ” my  informant. 
I thought  I detected  a slight  sneer  on  the  Doctor’s 
lip  as  he  said  that  was  well ; for  he  was  a gentleman, 
every  inch  of  him,  and  I know  he  hated  me  for  tell- 
ing. The  other  Commissioners  looked  grave. 

“Well,  then,”  I said,  “the  man  who  gave  me  the 
parrot  story  was  — you.  Dr.  Bryant.” 

The  Doctor  sat  bolt  upright  with  a jerk.  “No 
bad  jokes,  Mr.  Riis,”  he  said.  “ Who  gave  you  the 
story  ? ” 

“ Why,  you  did.  Don’t  you  remember.^”  And 
I told  how  I waylaid  him  in  the  hall.  His  face,  as 
the  narrative  ran  on,  was  a study.  Anger,  mirth, 
offended  pride,  struggled  there ; but  the  humor  of 
the  thing  got  the  upper  hand  in  the  end,  and  the 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


215 


one  who  laughed  loudest  in  the  Board  room  was 
Dr.  Bryant  himself.  In  my  soul  I believe  that  he 
was  not  a little  relieved,  for  under  a manner  of  much 
sternness  he  had  the  tenderest  of  hearts. 

But  it  was  not  always  I who  came  out  ahead  in 
the  daily  encounters  which  made  up  the  routine  of 
my  day.  It  was  an  important  part  of  my  task  to  be 
on  such  terms  with  the  heads  of  departments  that 
they  would  talk  freely  to  us  so  that  we  might  know 
in  any  given  case,  or  with  reference  to  the  policy  of 
the  department,  “ where  we  were  at.”  I do  not 
mean  talk  for  publication.  It  is  a common  mistake 
of  people  who  know  nothing  about  the  newspaper 
profession  that  reporters  flit  about  public  men  like 
so  many  hawks,  seizing  upon  what  they  can  And  to 
publish  as  their  lawful  prey.  No  doubt  there  are 
such  guerrillas,  and  they  have  occasionally  more 
than  justified  their  existence ; but,  as  applied  to  the 
staff  reporters  of  a great  newspaper,  nothing  could 
be  farther  from  the  truth.  The  department  reporter 
has  his  field  as  carefully  laid  out  for  him  every  day 
as  any  physician  who  starts  out  on  his  route,  and 
within  that  field,  if  he  is  the  right  sort  of  man,  he  is 
friend,  companion,  and  often  counsellor  to  the  offi- 
cials with  whom  he  comes  in  contact  — always  sup- 
posing that  he  is  not  fighting  them  in  open  war. 
He  may  serve  a Republican  paper  and  the  President 
of  the  Police  Board  may  be  a Democrat  of  Demo- 


2I6 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


crats ; yet  in  the  privacy  of  his  office  he  will  talk  as 
freely  to  the  reporter  as  if  he  were  his  most  intimate 
party  friend,  knowing  that  he  will  not  publish  what 
is  said  in  confidence.  This  is  the  reporter’s  capital, 
without  which  he  cannot  in  the  long  run  do  business. 

I presume  he  is  sometimes  tempted  to  gamble 
with  it  for  a stake.  I remember  well  when  the 
temptation  came  to  me  once  after  a quiet  hour  with 
Police  Commissioner  Matthews,  who  had  been  tell- 
ing me  the  inside  history  of  an  affair  which  just 
then  was  setting  the  whole  town  by  the  ears.  I 
told  him  that  I thought  I should  have  to  print  it; 
it  was  too  good  to  keep.  No,  it  wouldn’t  do,  he 
said.  I knew  well  enough  he  was  right,  but  I in- 
sisted; the  chance  was  too  good  a one  to  miss. 
Mr.  Matthews  shook  his  head.  He  was  an  invalid, 
and  was  taking  his  daily  treatment  with  an  electric 
battery  while  we  talked  and  smoked.  He  warned 
me  laughingly  against  the  consequences  of  what  I 
proposed  to  do,  and  changed  the  subject. 

“ Ever  try  these  } ” he  said,  giving  me  the  handles. 
I took  them,  unsuspecting,  and  felt  the  current  tin- 
gle in  my  finger-tips.  The  next  instant  it  gripped 
me  like  a vice.  I squirmed  with  pain. 

“ Stop ! ” I yelled,  and  tried  to  throw  the  things 
away;  but  my  hands  crooked  themselves  about  them 
like  a bird’s  claws  and  held  them  fast.  They  would 
not  let  go.  I looked  at  the  Commissioner.  He  was 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


217 


studying  the  battery  leisurely,  and  slowly  pulling 
out  the  plug  that  increased  the  current. 

“ For  mercy  s sake,  stop  ! ” I called  to  him.  He 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

“ About  that  interview,  now,”  he  drawled.  “ Do 
you  think  you  ought  to  print — ” 

“Wow,  wow!  Let  go,  I tell  you!”  It  hurt 
dreadfully.  He  pulled  the  thing  out  another  peg. 

“You  know  it  wouldn’t  do,  really.  Now,  if  — ” 
He  made  as  if  to  still  further  increase  the  current. 
I surrendered. 

“ Let  up,”  I begged,  “ and  I will  not  say  a word. 
Only  let  up.” 

He  set  me  free.  He  never  spoke  of  it  once  in  all 
the  years  I knew  him,  but  now  and  again  he  would 
offer  me,  with  a dry  smile,  the  use  of  his  battery  as 
“ very  good  for  the  health.”  I always  declined 
with  thanks. 

I got  into  Mulberry  Street  at  what  might  well 
be  called  the  heroic  age  of  police  reporting.  It 
rang  still  with  the  echoes  of  the  unfathomed 
Charley  Ross  mystery.  That  year  occurred  the 
Stewart  grave  robbery  and  the  Manhattan  Bank 
burglary  — three  epoch-making  crimes  that  each 
in  its  way  made  a sensation  such  as  New  York 
has  not  known  since.  For  though  Charley  Ross 
was  stolen  in  Philadelphia,  the  search  for  him  cen- 
tred in  the  metropolis.  The  three-million-dollar 


2i8 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


burglary  within  the  shadow  of  Police  Headquarters 
gave  us  Inspector  Byrnes,  who  broke  up  the  old 


“About  that  interview,  now,”  he  drawled. 

gangs  of  crooks  and  drove  those  whom  he  did  not 
put  in  jail  over  the  sea  to  ply  their  trade  in  Europe. 
The  Stewart  grave  robbery  ended  the  career  of 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


219 


the  ghouls,  and  the  Charley  Ross  case  put  a stop 
to  child-stealing  for  a generation,  by  making  those 
crimes  unprofitable.  The  public  excitement  was 
so  great  that  it  proved  impossible  for  the  thieves 
to  deliver  the  goods  and  effect  the  change  for  ran- 
som. At  intervals  for  years  these  cases  kept  turn- 
ing up  in  one  new  phase  or  another.  You  could 
never  tell  where  to  look  for  them.  Indeed,  I 
have  to  thank  the  Stewart  ghouls  for  the  first  pub- 
lic recognition  that  came  to  me  in  those  early 
years  of  toil.  Of  all  the  mysteries  that  ever  vexed 
a reporter’s  soul,  that  was  the  most  agonizing. 
The  police,  most  of  the  time,  were  as  much  in  the 
dark  as  the  rest  of  us,  and  nothing  was  to  be  got 
from  that  source.  Heaven  knows  I tried.  In  our 
desperation  we  caught  at  every  straw.  One  stormy 
night  in  the  hottest  of  the  excitement  Judge  Hilton, 
who  had  offered  the  ^50,000  reward  for  the  stolen 
body  on  behalf  of  Mrs.  Stewart,  went  to  Head- 
quarters and  stayed  an  hour  in  the  detective  office. 
When  he  came  out,  he  was  attended  by  two  of  the 
oldest  and  ablest  detectives.  Clearly  something  big 
was  on  foot.  They  were  just  like  so  many  sphinxes, 
and  went  straight  to  the  carriage  that  waited  at  the 
Mulberry  Street  door.  I do  not  know  how  it  ever 
entered  my  head  ; perhaps  it  didn’t  at  all,  but  was 
just  done  mechanically.  The  wind  had  blown  out 
the  lamp  on  the  steps,  and  the  street  was  in  pro- 


220 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


found  darkness.  As  they  stepped  into  the  carriage, 
I,  with  only  the  notion  in  my  head  that  here  was 
news  which  must  be  got  somehow,  went  in  last  and 
sank  down  in  the  vacant  seat,  pulling  the  door  to 
after  me.  The  carriage  went  on.  To  my  intense 
relief,  it  rounded  the  corner.  I was  undiscovered  ! 
But  at  that  moment  it  came  to  a sudden  stop. 


“The  carriage  went  on.” 


An  invisible  hand  opened  the  door,  and,  grasping 
my  collar,  gently  but  firmly  propelled  me  into  the 
street  and  dropped  me  there.  Then  the  carriage 
went  on.  Not  a word  had  been  spoken.  They 
understood  and  so  did  I.  It  was  enough. 

But,  as  I said,  I had  my  revenge.  It  came  when 
the  opposition  reporters,  believing  the  mystery  to 
be  near  its  solution,^  entered  into  a conspiracy  to 

^ This  was,  as  nearly  as  I remember,  in  the  autumn  of  1879, 
following  the  robbery. 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


221 


forestall  it  and  deliberately  invented  the  lines  of  the 
coming  denouement.  Day  by  day  they  published 
its  progress  “ upon  the  authority  of  a high  official  ” 
who  never  existed,  announcing  that  “behind  each 
one  of  the  grave-robbers  stood  a detective  with 
uplifted  hand  ” ready  to  arrest  him  when  the  word 
was  given.  It  was  truly  the  dawn  of  yellow  jour- 
nalism. With  such  extraordinary  circumstantiality 
were  the  accounts  given  that  for  once  my  office 
wavered  in  its  faith  in  Ensign  and  me.  Amos 
Ensign  was  my  partner  at  the  time,  a fine  fellow 
and  a good  reporter.  If  we  turned  out  to  be  wrong, 
we  were  given  to  understand  our  careers  on  the 
Tribune  would  be  at  an  end.  I slept  little  or 
none  during  that  month  of  intense  work  and  excite- 
ment, but  spent  my  days  as  my  nights  sifting  every 
scrap  of  evidence.  There  was  nothing  to  justify  the 
stories,  and  we  maintained  in  our  paper  that  they 
were  lies.  Mr.  Shanks  himself  left  the  city  desk 
and  came  up  to  work  with  us.  His  head,  too, 
would  fall,  we  heard,  if  his  faith  in  the  police  office 
had  been  misplaced.  The  bubble  burst  at  last,  and, 
as  we  expected,  there  was  nothing  in  it.  The  Trib- 
une was  justified.  The  opposition  reporters  were 
fined  or  suspended.  Ensign  and  I were  made 
much  of  in  the  office.  I have  still  the  bulletin  in 
which  Mr.  Shanks  spoke  of  me  as  the  man  whose 
work  had  done  much  to  “ make  the  Tribune  police 


222 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


reports  the  best  in  the  city.”  Sweet  comfort  for 
“the  Dutchman”!  My  salary  was  raised,  but  that 
was  of  less  account.  We  had  saved  the  day  and 


V j — - r all  pulling  up- 

/d^  berry  Street. 


this  very  case.  I was  not  to  blame,  and  therefore 
was  angry  and  refused  to  make  explanations.  That 
night,  as  I sat  sulking  in  my  home  in  Brooklyn, 
a big  warehouse  fire  broke  out  down  town.  From 
our  house  on  the  hill  I watched  it  grow  beyond 
control,  and  knew  that  the  boys  were  hard  put  to  it. 
It  was  late,  and  as  I thought  of  the  hastening 
hours,  the  police  reporter  got  the  better  of  the  man, 
and  I hurried  down  to  take  a hand.  When  I turned 
up  in  the  office  after  midnight  to  write  the  story, 
the  night  editor  eyed  me  curiously. 

“ I thought,  Riis,  you  were  suspended,”  he  said. 


the  desk.  After 
that  it  was  not 


— tAX. 


Nothing  in  this 
world  succeeds 
like  success. 


The  Bulletin. 


Before  that  I 
had  been  once 
suspended  my- 
self for  missing 
something  in 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


223 


For  a moment  I wavered,  smarting  under  the  in- 
justice of  it  all.  But  my  note-book  reminded  me. 

“ I am,”  I said,  “ and  when  I am  done  with  this 
I am  going  home  till  you  send  for  me.  But  this 
fire  — can  I have  a desk  ? ” 

The  night  editor  got  up  and  came  over  and  shook 
hands.  “ Take  mine,”  he  said.  “ There  ! take  it ! ” 

They  sent  for  me  the  next  day. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  all  this  was  smooth 
sailing.  Along  with  the  occasional  commendations 
for  battles  won  against  “ the  mob  ” went  constant 
and  grievous  complaints  of  the  editors  supplied  by 
the  Associated  Press,  and  even  by  some  in  my  own 
office  now  and  then,  of  my  “ style.”  It  was  very 
bad,  according  to  my  critics,  altogether  editorial 
and  presuming,  and  not  to  be  borne.  So  I was 
warned  that  I must  mend  it  and  give  the  facts, 
sparing  comments.  By  that  I suppose  they  meant 
that  I must  write,  not  what  I thought,  but  what 
they  probably  might  think  of  the  news.  But,  good 
or  bad,  I could  write  in  no  other  way,  and  kept 
right  on.  Not  that  I think,  by  any  manners  of 
means,  that  it  was  the  best  way,  but  it  was  mine. 
And  goodness  knows  I had  no  desire  to  be  an 
editor.  I have  not  now.  I prefer  to  be  a reporter 
and  deal  with  the  facts  to  being  an  editor  and  lying 
about  them.  In  the  end  the  complaints  died  out. 
I suppose  I was  given  up  as  hopeless. 


224 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Perhaps  there  had  crept  into  my  reports  too 
much  of  my  fight  with  the  police.  For  by  that 
time  I had  included  them  in  “ the  opposition.” 
They  had  not  been  friendly  from  the  first,  and  it 
was  best  so.  I had  them  all  in  front  then,  and  an 
open  enemy  is  better  any  day  than  a false  friend 
who  may  stab  you  in  the  back.  In  the  quarter  of 
a century  since,  I have  seldom  been  on  any  other 
terms  with  the  police.  I mean  with  the  heads  of 
them.  The  rank  and  file,  the  man  with  the  night- 
stick as  Roosevelt  liked  to  call  him,  is  all  right,  if 
properly  led.  He  has  rarely  been  properly  led.  It 
may  be  that,  in  that  respect  at  least,  my  reports 
might  have  been  tempered  somewhat  to  advantage. 
Though  I don’t  know.  I prefer,  after  all,  to  have 
it  out,  all  out.  And  it  did  come  out,  and  my  mind 
was  relieved  ; which  was  something. 

Speaking  of  night-sticks  reminds  me  of  seeing 
General  Grant  in  his  to  my  mind  greatest  hour, 
the  only  time  he  was  ever  beaten,  and  by  a police- 
man. I told  his  son,  Fred  Grant,  of  it  when  he 
became  a Police  Commissioner  in  the  nineties,  but 
I do  not  think  he  appreciated  it.  He  was  not  cast 
in  his  great  father’s  mould.  The  occasion  I refer  to 
was  after  the  General’s  second  term  in  the  Presi- 
dency. He  was  staying  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel 
when  one  morning  the  Masonic  Temple  was 
burned.  The  fire-line  was  drawn  halfway  down 


I ■ 


‘The  General  said  never  a v/ord.” 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


225 


the  block  toward  Fifth  Avenue,  but  the  police  were 
much  hampered  by  the  crowd,  and  were  out  of 
patience  when  I,  standing  by,  saw  a man  in  a great 
ulster  with  head  buried  deep  in  the  collar,  a cigar 
sticking  straight  out,  coming  down  the  street  from 
the  hotel.  I recognized  him  at  sight  as  General 
Grant.  The  policeman  who  blocked  his  way  did 
not.  He  grabbed  him  by  the  collar,  swung  him 
about,  and,  hitting  him  a resounding  whack  across 
the  back  with  his  club,  yelled  out : — 

“ What’s  the  matter  with  you  ? Don’t  you  see 
the  fire-lines  ? Chase  yourself  out  of  here,  and  be 
quick  about  it.” 

The  General  said  never  a word.  He  did  not 
stop  to  argue  the  matter.  He  had  run  up  against 
a sentinel,  and  when  stopped  went  the  other  way. 
That  was  all.  The  man  had  a right  to  be  there ; 
he  had  none.  I was  never  so  much  an  admirer  of 
Grant  as  since  that  day.  It  was  true  greatness. 
A smaller  man  would  have  made  a row,  stood  upon 
his  dignity  and  demanded  the  punishment  of  the 
policeman.  As  for  him,  there  was  probably  never 
so  badly  frightened  a policeman  when  I told  him 
whom  he  had  clubbed.  I will  warrant  he  did  not 
sleep  for  a week,  fearing  all  kinds  of  things.  No 
need  of  it.  Grant  probably  never  gave  him  a 
thought. 

It  was  in  pursuit  of  the  story  of  a Breton  noble- 


226 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


man  of  hoped-for  ancient  lineage  that  I met  with 
the  most  disheartening  set-back  of  my  experience. 
The  setting  of  the  case  was  most  alluring.  The 
old  baron  — for  he  was  nothing  less,  though  in 
Minetta  Lane  he  passed  for  a cat’s-meat  man  who 
peddled  his  odd  ware  from  door  to  door  — had  been 
found  by  the  police  sick  and  starving  in  his  wretched 
cellar,  and  had  been  taken  to  Bellevue  Hospital. 
The  inevitable  de  suggested  the  story,  and  papers 
that  I found  in  his  trunk  — papers  most  carefully 
guarded  and  cherished  — told  enough  of  it  to  whet 
my  appetite  to  its  keenest  edge.  If  the  owner  could 
only  be  made  to  talk,  if  his  stubborn  family  pride 
could  only  be  overcome,  there  was  every  promise 
here  of  a sensation  by  means  of  which  who  could 
tell  but  belated  justice  might  even  be  done  him  and 
his  family  — apart  from  the  phenomenal  trouncing 
I should  be  administering  through  him  to  my  rivals. 
Visions  of  conspiracies,  court  intrigues,  confisca- 
tions, and  what  not,  danced  before  my  greedy  men- 
tal vision.  I flew  rather  than  walked  up  to  Bellevue 
Hospital  to  offer  him  my  paper  and  pen  in  the 
service  of  right  and  of  vengeance,  only  to  find  that 
I was  twenty-four  hours  late.  The  patient  had 
already  been  transferred  to  the  Charity  Hospital  as 
a bad  case.  The  boat  had  gone ; there  would  not 
be  another  for  several  hours.  I could  not  wait,  but 
it  was  a comfort,  at  all  events,  to  know  that  my 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


227 


baron  was  where  I could  get  at  him  on  the  morrow. 
I dreamed  some  more  dreams  of  happiness  as  I 
went  back,  and  was  content. 

As  it  happened,  I was  very  busy  the  next  day 
and  for  several  days  after.  The  week  was  nearly 
spent  when  I found  myself  on  the  boat  going  up  to 
the  island.  At  the  hospital  office  they  reassured 
me  with  a queer  look.  Yes;  my  man  was  there, 
likely  to  stay  there  for  a little  while.  The  doctor 
would  presently  take  me  to  see  him  on  his  rounds. 
In  one  of  the  big  wards  I found  him  at  last,  num- 
bered in  the  row  of  beds  among  a score  of  other 
human  wrecks,  a little  old  man,  bent  and  haggard, 
but  with  some  of  the  dignity,  I fancied,  of  his  noble 
descent  upon  his  white  and  wrinkled  brow.  He 
sat  up  in  bed,  propped  by  pillows,  and  listened  with 
hungry  eyes  as,  in  French  which  I had  most  care- 
fully polished  up  for  the  occasion,  I told  him  my 
errand.  When  at  last  I paused,  waiting  anxiously 
for  an  answer,  he  laid  one  trembling  hand  on 
mine  — I noticed  that  the  other  hung  limp  from 
the  shoulder  — and  made,  as  it  seemed,  a superhu- 
man effort  to  speak ; but  only  inarticulate,  pitiful 
sounds  came  forth.  I looked  appealingly  at  the 
doctor. 

“ Dumb,”  he  said,  and  shook  his  head.  “ Paraly- 
sis involving  the  vocal  organs.  He  will  never  speak 
again.” 


228 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


And  he  didn’t.  He  was  buried  in  the  Potter’s 
Field  the  next  week.  For  once  I was  too  late. 
The  story  of  the  last  of  my  barons  remains  untold 
until  this  hour. 

And  now  that  this  chapter,  somewhat  against 
my  planning,  has  become  wholly  the  police  report- 
er’s, I shall  have  to  bring  up  my  cause  c'elebre, 
though  that  came  a long  while  after  my  getting  into 
Mulberry  Street.  I shall  not  have  so  good  an  op- 
portunity again.  It  was  the  occasion  of  the  last  of 
my  many  battles  for  the  mastery;  but,  more  than 
that,  it  illustrates  very  well  that  which  I have  been 
trying  to  describe  as  a reporter’s  public  function. 
We  had  been  for  months  in  dread  of  a cholera 
scourge  that  summer,  when,  mousing  about  the 
Health  Department  one  day,  I picked  up  the  weekly 
analysis  of  the  Croton  water  and  noticed  that  there 
had  been  for  two  weeks  past  “ a trace  of  nitrites  ” 
in  the  water.  I asked  the  department  chemist  what 
it  was.  He  gave  an  evasive  answer,  and  my  curios- 
ity was  at  once  aroused.  There  must  be  no  un- 
known or  doubtful  ingredient  in  the  water  supply 
of  a city  of  two  million  souls.  Like  Cmsar’s  wife, 
it  must  be  above  suspicion.  Within  an  hour  I had 
learned  that  the  nitrites  meant  in  fact  that  there 
had  been  at  one  time  sewage  contamination ; con- 
sequently that  we  were  face  to  face  with  a most 
grave  problem.  How  had  the  water  become  pol- 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


229 


luted,  and  who  guaranteed  that  it  was  not  in  that 
way  even  then,  with  the  black  death  threatening  to 
cross  the  ocean  from  Europe? 

I sounded  the  warning  in  my  paper,  then  the 
Evening  Sun,  counselled  the  people  to  boil  the 
water  pending  further  discoveries,  then  took  my 
camera  and  went  up  in  the  watershed.  I spent  a 
week  there,  following  to  its  source  every  stream 
that  discharged  into  the  Croton  River  and  photo- 
graphing my  evidence  wherever  I found  it.  When 
I told  my  story  in  print,  illustrated  with  the  pic- 
tures, the  town  was  astounded.  The  Board  of 
Health  sent  Inspectors  to  the  watershed,  who  re- 
ported that  things  were  worse  a great  deal  than  I 
had  said.  Populous  towns  sewered  directly  into 
our  drinking-water.  There  was  not  even  a pre- 
tence at  decency.  The  people  bathed  and  washed 
their  dogs  in  the  streams.  The  public  town  dumps 
were  on  their  banks.  The  rival  newspapers  tried 
to  belittle  the  evil  because  their  reporters  were 
beaten.  Running  water  purifies  itself,  they  said. 
So  it  does,  if  it  runs  far  enough  and  long  enough. 
I put  that  matter  to  the  test.  Taking  the  case  of 
a town  some  sixty  miles  out  of  New  York,  one  of 
the  worst  offenders,  I ascertained  from  the  engineer 
of  the  water-works  how  long  it  ordinarily  took  to 
bring  water  from  the  Sodom  reservoir  just  beyond, 
down  to  the  housekeepers’  faucets  in  the  city.  Four 


230  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

days,  I think  it  was.  Then  I went  to  the  doctors 
and  asked  them  how  many  days  a vigorous  cholera 
bacillus  might  live  and  multiply  in  running  water. 
About  seven,  said  they.  My  case  was  made.  There 
was  needed  but  a single  case  of  the  dreaded  scourge 
in  any  one  of  a dozen  towns  or  villages  that  were 
on  the  line  of  travel  from  the  harbor  in  which  a half 
score  ships  were  under  quarantine,  to  put  the  me- 
tropolis at  the  mercy  of  an  inconceivable  calamity. 

There  was  in  all  this  no  attempt  at  sensation.  It 
was  simple  fact,  as  any  one  could  see  for  himself. 
The  health  inspectors’  report  clinched  the  matter. 
The  newspapers  editorially  abandoned  their  re- 
porters to  ridicule  and  their  fate.  The  city  had  to 
purchase  a strip  of  land  along  the  streams  wide 
enough  to  guard  against  direct  pollution.  It  cost 
millions  of  dollars,  but  it  was  the  merest  trifle 
to  what  a cholera  epidemic  would  have  meant  to 
New  York  in  loss  of  commercial  prestige,  let  alone 
human  lives.  The  contention  over  that  end  of  it 
was  transferred  to  Albany,  where  the  politicians  took 
a hand.  What  is  there  they  do  not  exploit?  Years 
after,  meeting  one  of  them  who  knew  my  share  in 
it,  he  asked  me,  with  a wink  and  a confidential  shove, 
“ how  much  I got  out  of  it.”  When  I told  him 
“ nothing,”  I knew  that  upon  my  own  statement  he 
took  me  for  either  a liar  or  a fool,  the  last  being  con- 
siderably the  worse  of  the  two  alternatives. 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


231 


In  all  of  this  battlesome  account  I have  said  nothing 
about  the  biggest  fight  of  all.  I had  that  with  my- 
self. In  the  years  that  had  passed  I had  never  for- 
gotten the  sergeant  in  the  Church  Street  police 
station,  and  my  dog.  It  is  the  kind  of  thing  you 
do  not  get  over.  Way  back  in  my  mind  there  was 
the  secret  thought,  the  day  I went  up  to  Mulberry 
Street,  that  my  time  was  coming  at  last.  And  now  it 
had  come.  I had  a recognized  place  at  Headquarters, 
and  place  in  the  police  world  means  power,  more  or 
less.  The  backing  of  the  Tribune  had  given  me 
influence.  More  I had  conquered  myself  in  my 
fights  with  the  police.  Enough  for  revenge ! At 
the  thought  I flushed  with  anger.  It  has  power  yet 
to  make  my  blood  boil,  the  thought  of  that  night  in 
the  station-house. 

It  was  then  my  great  temptation  came.  No 
doubt  the  sergeant  was  still  there.  If  not,  I could 
find  him.  I knew  the  day  and  hour  when  it  hap- 
pened. They  were  burned  into  my  brain.  I had 
only  to  turn  to  the  department  records  to  find  out 
who  made  out  the  returns  on  that  October  morning 
while  I was  walking  the  weary  length  of  the  trestle- 
work  bridge  across  Raritan  Bay,  to  have  him 
within  reach.  There  were  a hundred  ways  in  which 
I could  hound  him  tlien,  out  of  place  and  pay,  even 
as  he  had  driven  me  forth  from  the  last  poor  shelter 
and  caused  my  only  friend  to  be  killed. 


232 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Speak  not  to  me  of  the  sweetness  of  revenge ! Of 
all  unhappy  mortals  the  vengeful  man  must  be  the 
most  wretched.  I suffered  more  in  the  anticipation 
of  mine  than  ever  I had  when  smarting  under  the 
injury,  grievous  as  the  memory  of  it  is  to  me  even 
now.  Day  after  day  I went  across  the  street  to  begin 
the  search.  For  hours  I lingered  about  the  record 
clerk  s room  where  they  kept  the  old  station-house 
blotters,  unable  to  tear  myself  away.  Once  I even 
had  the  one  from  Church  Street  of  October,  1870, 
in  my  hands ; but  I did  not  open  it.  Even  as  I 
held  it  I saw  another  and  a better  way.  I would 
kill  the  abuse,  not  the  man  who  was  but  the  instru- 
ment and  the  victim  of  it.  F'or  never  was  parody 
upon  Christian  charity  more  corrupting  to  human 
mind  and  soul  than  the  frightful  abomination  of  the 
police  lodging-house,  sole  provision  made  by  the 
municipality  for  its  homeless  wanderers.  Within  a 
year  I have  seen  the  process  in  full  operation  in 
Chicago,  have  heard  a sergeant  in  the  Harrison 
Street  Station  there  tell  me,  when  my  indignation 
found  vent  in  angry  words,  that  they  “cared  less  for 
those  men  and  women  than  for  the  cur  dogs  in  the 
street.”  Exactly  so ! My  sergeant  was  of  the 
same  stamp.  Those  dens,  daily  association  with 
them,  had  stamped  him.  Then  and  there  I resolved 
to  wipe  them  out,  bodily,  if  God  gave  me  health  and 
strength.  And  I put  the  book  away  quick  and 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


233 


never  saw  it  again.  I do  not  know  till  this  day 
who  the  sergeant  was,  and  I am  glad  I do  not.  It 
is  better  so. 

Of  what  I did  to  carry  out  my  purpose,  and  how  it 
was  done,  I must  tell  hereafter.  It  was  the  source 
and  beginning  of  all  the  work  which  justifies  the 
writing  of  these  pages ; and  among  all  the  things 
which  I have  been  credited  with  doing  since  it  is 
one  of  the  few  in  which  I really  bore  a strong  hand. 
And  yet  it  was  not  mine  which  finally  wrought  that 
great  work,  but  a stronger  and  better  than  mine, 
Theodore  Roosevelt’s.  Even  while  I was  writing  this 
account  we  together  drove  in  the  last  nail  in  the  cof- 
fin of  the  bad  old  days,  by  persuading  the  Charter 
Revision  Commission  to  remove  from  the  organic 
law  of  the  city  the  clause  giving  to  the  police  the 
care  of  vagrants,  which  was  the  cause  of  it  all.  It 
had  remained  over  in  the  Charter  of  the  Greater 
New  York  in  spite  of  our  protests.  It  was  never 
the  proper  business  of  the  police  to  dispense  charity. 
They  have  their  hands  full  with  repressing  crime. 
It  is  the  mixing  of  the  two  that  confuses  standards 
and  makes  trouble  without  end  for  those  who  re- 
ceive the  “ charity,”  and  even  more  for  those  who 
dispense  it.  You  cannot  pervert  the  first  and  finest 
of  human  instincts  without  corrupting  men  ; witness 
my  sergeant  in  Church  Street  and  his  Chicago 
brother. 


CHAPTER  X 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 

The  lilacs  blossom  under  my  window,  as  I begin 
this  chapter,  and  the  bees  are  humming  among 
them ; the  sweet  smell  of  wild  cherry  comes  up  from 
the  garden  where  the  sunlight  lies  upon  the  young 
grass.  Robin  and  oriole  call  to  their  mates  in  the 
trees.  There  upon  the  lawn  is  Elisabeth  tending 
some  linen  laid  out  to  dry.  Her  form  is  as  lithe 
and  her  step  as  light  as  in  the  days  I have  written 
about,  grandmother  as  she  is.  I can  see,  though 
her  back  is  turned,  the  look  of  affectionate  pride 
with  which  she  surveys  our  home,  for  I know  well 
enough  what  she  is  thinking  of.  And  so  it  has 
been;  a blessed,  good  home;  how  could  it  help 
being  that  with  her  in  it  ? They  say  it  is  a sign 
one  is  growing  old  when  one’s  thoughts  dwell  much 
on  the  past.  Perhaps  with  me  it  is  only  a sign  that 
the  printers  are  on  the  war-path.  Often  when  I 
hear  her  sing  with  the  children  my  mind  wanders 
back  to  the  long  winter  evenings  in  those  early 
years  when  she  sat  listening  late  for  my  step.  She 
sang  then  to  keep  up  her  courage.  My  work  in 


234 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


235 


Mulberry  Street  was  at  night,  and  she  was  much 
alone,  even  as  I was,  fighting  my  battles  there. 
She  had  it  out  with  the  homesickness  then,  and  I 
think  hers  was  a good  deal  the  harder  fight.  I had 
the  enemy  all  in  front  where  I could  see  to  whack 
him.  But  so  we  found  ourselves  and  each  other, 
and  it  was  worth  all  it  cost. 

Except  in  the  short  winter  days  it  was  always 
broad  daylight  when  I came  home  from  work.  My 
route  from  the  office  lay  through  the  Fourth  and 
the  Sixth  wards,  the  worst  in  the  city,  and  for 
years  I walked  every  morning  between  two  and 
four  o’clock  the  whole  length  of  Mulberry  Street, 
through  the  Bend  and  across  the  Five  Points  down 
to  Fulton  Ferry.  There  were  cars  on  the  Bowery, 
but  I liked  to  walk,  for  so  I saw  the  slum  when 
off  its  guard.  The  instinct  to  pose  is  as  strong 
there  as  it  is  on  Pfifth  Avenue.  It  is  a human  im- 
pulse, I suppose.  We  all  like  to  be  thought  well 
of  by  our  fellows.  But  at  3 a.m.  the  veneering  is 
off  and  you  see  the  true  grain  of  a thing.  So,  also, 
I got  a picture  of  the  Bend  upon  my  mind  which 
so  soon  as  I should  be  able  to  transfer  it  to  that  of 
the  community  would  help  settle  with  that  pig-sty 
according  to  its  deserts.  It  was  not  fit  for  Chris- 
tian men  and  women,  let  alone  innocent  children, 
to  live  in,  and  therefore  it  had  to  go.  So  with  the 
police  lodging-rooms,  some  of  the  worst  of  which 


236  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

were  right  there,  at  the  Mulberry  Street  Station 
and  around  the  corner  in  Elizabeth  Street.  The 
way  of  it  never  gave  me  any  concern  that  I remem- 
ber. That  would  open  as  soon  as  the  truth  was 
told.  The  trouble  was  that  people  did  not  know 
and  had  no  means  of  finding  out  for  themselves. 
But  I had.  Accordingly  I went  poking  about 
among  the  foul  alleys  and  fouler  tenements  of  the 
Bend  when  they  slept  in  their  filth,  sometimes  with 
the  policeman  on  the  beat,  more  often  alone,  sound- 
ing the  misery  and  the  depravity  of  it  to  their  depth. 
I think  a notion  of  the  purpose  of  it  all  crept  into 
the  office,  even  while  I was  only  half  aware  of  it 
myself,  for  when,  after  a years  service  at  the  police 
office,  I was  taken  with  a longing  for  the  open,  as 
it  were,  and  went  to  the  city  editor  who  had  suc- 
ceeded Mr.  Shanks  with  the  request  that  I be  trans- 
ferred to  general  work,  he  refused  flatly.  I had  made 
a good  record  as  a police  reporter,  but  it  was  not  that. 

“ Go  back  and  stay,”  he  said.  “ Unless  I am 
* much  mistaken,  you  are  flnding  something  up  there 
that  needs  you.  Wait  and  see.” 

And  so  for  the  second  time  I was  turned  back 
to  the  task  I wanted  to  shirk.  Jonah  was  one  of 
us  sure  enough.  Those  who  see  only  the  whale 
fail  to  catch  the  point  in  the  most  human  story  ever 
told  — a point,  I am  afraid,  that  has  a special  appli- 
cation to  most  of  us. 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


237 


I have  often  been  asked  if  such  slumming  is  not 
full  of  peril.  No,  not  if  you  are  there  on  business. 
Mere  sightseeing  at  such  unseasonable  hours  might 
easily  be.  But  the  man  who  is  sober  and  minds 
his  own  business  — which  presupposes  that  he  has 
business  to  mind  there  — runs  no  risk  anywhere  in 
New  York,  by  night  or  by  day.  Such  a man  will  take 
the  other  side  of  the  street  when  he  sees  a gang 
ahead  spoiling  for  a fight,  and  where  he  does  go 
he  will  carry  the  quiet  assumption  of  authority  that 
comes  with  the  consciousness  of  a right  to  be  where 
he  is.  That  usually  settles  it.  There  was  perhaps 
another  factor  in  my  case  that  helped.  Whether 
it  was  my  slouch  hat  and  my  spectacles,  or  the  fact 
that  I had  been  often  called  into  requisition  to  help 
an  ambulance  surgeon  patch  up  an  injured  man, 
the  nickname  “ Doc  ” had  somehow  stuck  to  me, 
and  I was  supposed  by  many  to  be  a physician  con-' 
nected  with  the  Health  Department.  Doctors  are 
never  molested  in  the  slum.  It  does  not  know  but 
that  its  turn  to  need  them  is  coming  next.  No 
more  was  I.  I can  think  of  only  two  occasions  in 
more  than  twenty  years  of  police  reporting  when  I 
was  in  actual  peril,  though  once  I was  very  badly 
frightened. 

One  was  when  a cry  of  murder  had  lured  me 
down  Crosby  Street  into  a saloon  on  the  corner  of 
Jersey  Street,  where  the  gang  of  the  neighborhood 


238  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

had  just  stabbed  the  saloon-keeper  in  a drunken 
brawl.  He  was  lying  in  a chair  surrounded  by 
shrieking  women  when  I ran  in.  On  the  instant 
the  doors  were  slammed  and  barred  behind  me,  and 
I found  myself  on  the  battlefield  with  the  battle  rag- 
ing unabated.  Bottles  were  flying  thick  and  fast, 
and  the  bar  was  going  to  smash.  As  I bent  over 
the  wounded  man,  I saw  that  he  was  done  for. 
The  knife  was  even  then  sticking  in  his  neck,  its 
point  driven  into  the  backbone.  The  instinct  of 
the  reporter  came  uppermost,  and  as  I pulled  it  out 
and  held  it  up  in  a pause  of  the  fray,  I asked  in- 
cautiously : — 

“ Whose  knife  is  this  ? ” 

A whiskey-bottle  that  shaved  within  an  inch  of 
my  head,  followed  by  an  angry  oath,  at  once  recalled 
me  to  myself  and  showed  me  my  role. 

“You, tend  to  your  business,  you  infernal  body- 
snatcher,  and  let  us  run  ours,”  ran  the  message,  and 
I understood.  I called  for  bandages,  a sponge,  and 
a basin,  and  acted  the  surgeon  as  well  as  I could, 
trying  to  stanch  the  flow  of  blood,  while  the  racket 
rose  and  the  women  shrieked  louder  with  each  pass- 
ing moment.  Through  the  turmoil  I strained  every 
nerve  to  catch  the  sound  of  policemen’s  tramp.  It 
was  hardly  three  minutes’  run  to  the  station-house, 
but  time  never  dragged  as  it  did  then.  Once  I 
thought  relief  had  come ; but  as  I listened  and 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


239 


caught  the  wail  of  men  being  beaten  in  the  street, 
I smiled  wickedly  in  the  midst  of  my  own  troubles, 
for  the  voices  told  me  that  my  opponents  from 
headquarters,  following  on  my  track,  had  fallen 
among  thieves : half  the  gang  were  then  outside. 
At  last,  just  as  an  empty  keg  knocked  my  patient 
from  his  chair,  the  doors  fell  in  with  a crash ; the 
reserves  had  come.  Their  clubs  soon  cleared  the 
air  and  relieved  me  of  my  involuntary  task,  with  my 
patient  yet  alive. 

Another  time,  turning  a corner  in  the  small  hours 
of  the  morning,  I came  suddenly  upon  a gang  of 
drunken  roughs  ripe  for  mischief.  The  leader  had 
a long  dirk-knife  with  which  he  playfully  jabbed 
me  in  the  ribs,  insolently  demanding  what  I thought 
of  it.  I seized  him  by  the  wrist  with  as  calm  a pre- 
tence of  considering  the  knife  as  I could  summon 
up,  but  really  to  prevent  his  cutting  me.  I felt  the 
point  pricking  through  my  clothes. 

“ About  two  inches  longer  than  the  law  allows,” 
I said,  sparring  for  time.  “ I think  I will  take 
that.” 

I knew  even  as  I said  it  that  I had  cast  the  die ; 
he  held  my  life  in  his  hand.  It  was  a simple  ques- 
tion of  which  was  the  stronger,  and  it  was  already 
decided.  Despite  my  utmost  effort  to  stay  it,  the 
point  of  the  knife  was  piercing  my  skin.  The  gang 
stood  by,  watching  the  silent  struggle.  I knew 


240 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


them  — the  Why-os,  the  worst  cutthroats  in  the 
city,  charged  with  a dozen  murders,  and  robberies 
without  end.  A human  life  was  to  them,  in  the 
mood  they  were  in,  worth  as  much  as  the  dirt  under 
their  feet,  no  more.  At  that  instant,  not  six  feet 
behind  their  backs.  Captain  McCullagh  — the  same 
who  afterward  became  Chief  — turned  the  corner 
with  his  precinct  detective.  I gathered  all  my 
strength  and  gave  the  ruffian’s  hand  a mighty  twist 
that  turned  the  knife  aside.  I held  it  out  for 
inspection. 

“ What  do  you  think  of  it.  Cap  ? ” 

Four  brawny  fists  scattered  the  gang  to  the  winds 
for  an  answer.  The  knife  was  left  in  my  hand. 

They  gave  me  no  time  to  get  frightened.  Once 
when  I really  was  scared,  it  was  entirely  my  own 
doing.  And,  furthermore,  it  served  me  right.  It 
was  on  a very  hot  July  morning  that,  coming  down 
Mulberry  Street,  I saw  a big  gray  cat  sitting  on  a 
beer-keg  outside  a corner  saloon.  It  was  fast  asleep, 
and  snored  so  loudly  that  it  aroused  my  anger.  It 
is  bad  enough  to  have  a man  snore,  but  a cat  — ! 
It  was  not  to  be  borne.  I hauled  off  with  my  cane 
and  gave  the  beast  a most  cruel  and  undeserved 
blow  to  teach  it  better  manners.  The  snoring  was 
smothered  in  a yell,  the  cat  came  down  from  the 
keg,  and  to  my  horror  there  rose  from  behind  the 
corner  an  angry  Celt  swearing  a blue  streak.  He 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


241 


seemed  to  my  anguished  gaze  at  least  nine  feet  tall. 
He  had  been  asleep  at  his  own  door  when  my  blow 
aroused  him,  and  it  was  his  stocking  feet,  propped 
up  on  the  keg  as  he  dozed  in  his  chair  around  the 
corner,  I had  mistaken  for  a gray  cat.  It  was  not  a 
time  for  explanations.  I did  the  only  thing  tliere 
was  to  be  done ; I ran.  Far  and  fast  did  I run.  It 
was  my  good  luck  that  his  smarting  feet  kept  him 
from  following,  or  I might  not  have  lived  to  tell  this 
tale.  As  I said,  it  served  me  right.  Perhaps  it  is 
in  the  way  of  reparation  that  I now  support  twelve 
cats  upon  my  premises.  Three  of  them  are  clawing 
at  my  study  door  this  minute  demanding  to  be  let 
in.  But  I cannot  even  claim  the  poor  merit  of  pro- 
viding for  them.  It  is  my  daughter  who  runs  the 
cats ; I merely  growl  at  and  feed  them. 

The  mention  of  Bowery  night  cars  brings  to  my 
mind  an  episode  of  that  time  which  was  thoroughly 
characteristic  of  the  “highway  that  never  sleeps.” 
I was  on  the  way  down  town  in  one,  with  a single 
fellow-passenger  who  was  asleep  just  inside  the 
door,  his  head  nodding  with  every  jolt  as  though 
it  were  in  dansfer  of  cominor  off.  At  Grand  Street 

o o 

a German  boarded  the  car  and  proffered  a bad  half- 
dollar  in  payment  of  his  fare.  The  conductor  bit  it 
and  gave  it  back  with  a grunt  of  contempt.  The 
German  fell  into  a state  of  excitement  at  once. 

“Vat!”  he  shouted,  “it  vas  pad.^”  and  slapped 


242 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  coin  down  on  the  wooden  seat  with  all  his 
might,  that  we  might  hear  the  ring.  It  rebounded 
with  a long  slant  and  fell  into  the  lap  of  the  sleep- 
ing passenger,  who  instantly  woke  up,  grabbed 
the  half-dollar,  and  vanished  through  the  door  and 
into  the  darkness,  without  as  much  as  looking 
around,  followed  by  the  desolate  howl  of  the  de- 
spoiled German : — 

“ Himmel!  One  United  Shdades  half-dollar  clean 
gone ! ” 

The  time  came  at  length  when  I exchanged  night 
work  for  day  work,  and  I was  not  sorry.  A new 
life  began  for  me,  with  greatly  enlarged  opportuni- 
ties. I had  been  absorbing  impressions  up  till  then. 
I met  men  now  in  whose  companionship  they  began 
to  crystallize,  to  form  into  definite  convictions ; men 
of  learning,  of  sympathy,  and  of  power.  My  eggs 
hatched.  From  that  time  dates  my  friendship, 
priceless  to  me,  with  Dr.  Roger  S.  Tracy,  then  a 
sanitary  inspector  in  the  Health  Department,  later 
its  distinguished  statistician,  to  whom  I owe  pretty 
much  all  the  understanding  I have  ever  had  of  the 
problems  I have  battled  with ; for  he  is  very  wise, 
while  I am  rather  dull  of  wit.  But  directly  I get 
talking  things  over  with  him,  I brighten  right  up. 
I met  Professor  Charles  F.  Chandler,  Major  Willard 
Bullard,  Dr.  Edward  H.  Janes  — men  to  whose 
practical  wisdom  and  patient  labors  in  the  shaping 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


243 


of  the  Health  Department’s  work  the  metropolis 
owes  a greater  debt  than  it  is  aware  of;  Dr.  John 
T.  Nagle,  whose  friendly  camera  later  on  gave  me 
some  invaluable  lessons;  and  General  Ely  Parker, 
Chief  of  the  Six 
Nations. 

I suppose  it  was 
the  fact  that  he 
was  an  Indian  that 
first  attracted  me 
to  him.  As  the 
years  passed  we  be- 
came great  friends, 
and  I loved  noth- 
ing better  in  an 
idle  hour  than  to 
smoke  a pipe  with 
the  General  in  his 
poky  little  office  at 
Police  Headquar- 
ters. That  was  about  all  there  was  to  it,  too,  for  he 
rarely  opened  his  mouth  except  to  grunt  approval  of 
something  I was  saying.  When,  once  in  a while,  it 
would  happen  that  some  of  his  people  came  down 
from  the  Reservation  or  from  Canada,  the  powwow 
that  ensued  was  my  dear  delight.  Three  pipes  and 
about  eleven  grunts  made  up  the  whole  of  it,  but 
it  was  none  the  less  entirely  friendly  and  satisfactory. 


Dr.  Roger  S.  Tracy. 


244 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


We  all  have  our  own  ways  of  doing  things,  and  that 
was  theirs.  He  was  a noble  old  fellow.  His  title  was 
no  trumpery  show,  either.  It  was  fairly  earned  on 
more  than  one  bloody  field  with  Grant’s  army. 
Parker  was  Grant’s  military  secretary,  and  wrote 
the  original  draft  of  the  surrender  at  Appomattox, 
which  he  kept  to  his  death  with  great  pride.  It 
was  not  General  Parker,  however,  but  Donehogawa, 
Chief  of  the  Senecas  and  of  the  remnant  of  the 
once  powerful  Six  Nations,  and  guardian  of  the 
western  door  of  the  council  lodge,  that  appealed 
to  me,  who  in  my  boyhood  had  lived  with  Leather- 
stocking and  with  Uncas  and  Chingachgook.  They 
had  something  to  do  with  my  coming  here,  and  at 
last  I had  for  a friend  one  of  their  kin.  I think  he 
felt  the  bond  of  sympathy  between  us  and  prized  it, 
for  he  showed  me  in  many  silent  ways  that  he  was 
fond  of  me.  There  was  about  him  an  infinite 
pathos,  penned  up  there  in  his  old  age  among  the 
tenements  of  Mulberry  Street  on  the  pay  of  a 
second-rate  clerk,  that  never  ceased  to  appeal  to 
me.  When  he  lay  dead,  stricken  like  the  soldier  he 
was  at  his  post,  some  letters  of  his  to  Mrs.  Harriet 
Converse,  the  adopted  child  of  his  tribe,  went  to  my 
heart.  They  were  addressed  to  her  on  her  travels. 
He  was  of  the  “wolf”  tribe,  she  a “snipe.”  “ From 
the  wolf  to  the  wandering  snipe,”  they  ran.  Even 
in  Mulberry  Street  he  was  a true  son  of  the  forest. 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


245 


Perhaps  the  General’s  sympathies  went  out  to 
me  as  a fighter.  The  change  of  front  from  night 
to  day  brought  no  let-up  on  hostilities  in  our  camp  ; 
rather  the  reverse.  For  this  there  was  good  cause  : 
I had  interfered  with 
long  - cherished  privi- 
leges. I found  the  day 
men  coming  to  work 
at  all  hours  from  ten 
to  twelve  or  even  one 
o’clock.  I went  on 
duty  at  eight,  and  the 
immediate  result  was 
to  compel  all  the  others 
to  do  the  same.  This 
was  a sore  grievance, 
and  was  held  against  me  for  a long  time.  The 
logical  outcome  of  the  war  it  provoked  was  to 
stretch  the  day  farther  into  the  small  hours.  Be- 
fore I left  Mulberry  Street  the  circuit  had  been 
made.  The  watch  now  is  kept  up  through  the 
twenty-four  hours  without  interruption.  Like  its 
neighbor  the  Bowery,  Mulberry  Street  never  sleeps. 

There  had  been  in  1879  an  awakening  of  the 
public  conscience  on  the  tenement-house  question 
which  I had  followed  with  interest,  because  it  had 
started  in  the  churches  that  have  always  seemed  to 
me  to  be  the  right  forum  for  such  a discussion,  on 


246  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

every  ground,  and  most  for  their  own  sake  and  the 
cause  they  stand  for.  But  the  awakening  proved 
more  of  a sleepy  yawn  than  real  — like  a man 
stretching  himself  in  bed  with  half  a mind  to  get 
up.  Five  years  later,  in  1884,  came  the  Tenement- 
House  Commission  which  first  brought  home  to  us 
the  fact  that  the  people  living  in  the  tenements 
were  “better  than  the  houses.”  That  was  a big 
white  milestone  on  a dreary  road.  From  that  time 
on  we  hear  of  “souls”  in  the  slum.  The  property 
end  of  it  had  held  the  stage  up  till  then,  and  in  a 
kind  of  self-defence,  I suppose,  we  had  had  to  for- 
get that  the  people  there  had  souls.  Because  you 
couldn’t  very  well  count  souls  as  chattels  yielding 
so  much  income  to  the  owner:  it  would  not  be 
polite  toward  the  Lord,  say.  Sounds  queer,  but  if 
that  was  not  the  attitude  I would  like  to  know 
what  it  was.  The  Commission  met  at  Police 
Headquarters,  and  I sat  through  all  its  sessions  as 
a reporter,  and  heard  every  word  of  the  testimony, 
which  was  more  than  some  of  the  Commissioners 
did.  Mr.  Ottendorfer  and  Mr.  Drexel,  the  banker, 
took  many  a quiet  little  nap  when  things  were  dull. 
One  man  the  landlords,  who  had  their  innings  to 
the  full,  never  caught  off  his  guard.  His  clear, 
incisive  questions,  that  went  through  all  subter- 
fuges to  the  root  of  things,  were  sometimes  like 
flashes  of  lightning  on  a dark  night  discovering 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


247 


the  Jandscape  far  and  near.  He  was  Dr.  Felix 
Adler,  whom  I met  there  for  the  first  time.  The 
passing  years  have  given  him  a very  warm  place  in 
my  heart.  Adler  was  born  a Jew.  Often  when  I 
think  of  the  position  the  Christian  Church  took,  or 
rather  did  not  take,  on  a matter  so  nearly  concern- 
ing it  as  the  murder  of  the  home  in  a tenement 
population  of  a million  souls,  — for  that  was  what  it 
came  to,  — I am  reminded  of  a talk  we  had  once  in 
Dr.  Adler’s  study.  I was  going  to  Boston  to  speak 
to  a body  of  clergymen  at  their  monthly  dinner 
meeting.  He  had  shortly  before  received  an  invi- 
tation to  address  the  same  body  on  “ The  Person- 
ality of  Christ,”  but  had  it  in  his  mind  not  to  go. 

“ What  will  you  tell  them?”  I asked. 

The  Doctor  smiled  a thoughtful  little  smile  as  he 
said  : “ I shall  tell  them  that  the  personality  of  Christ 
is  too  sacred  a subject  for  me  to  discuss  at  an 
after-dinner  meeting  in  a swell  hotel.” 

Does  that  help  you  to  understand  that  among  the 
strongest  of  moral  forces  in  Christian  New  York 
was  and  is  Adler,  the  Jew  or  heretic,  take  it  which- 
ever way  you  please  ? 

Four  years  later  the  finishing  touch  was  put  to 
the  course  I took  with  the  Adler  Tenement- House 
Commission,  when,  toward  the  end  of  a three  days’ 
session  in  Chickering  Hall  of  ministers  of  every 
sect  who  were  concerned  about  the  losins:  fiofht  the 

o o 


248  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

Church  was  waging  among  the  masses,  a man  stood 
in  the  meeting  and  cried  out,  “ How  are  these  men 
and  women  to  understand  the  love  of  God  you  speak 
of,  when  they  see  only  the  greed  of  men  ? ” He  was 
a builder,  Alfred  T.  White  of  Brooklyn,  who  had 
proved  the  faith  that  was  in  him  by  building  real 
homes  for  the  people,  and  had  proved,  too,  that  they 
were  a paying  investment.  It  was  just  a question 
whether  a man  would  take  seven  per  cent  and  save 
his  soul,  or  twenty-five  and  lose  it.  And  I might  as 
well  add  here  that  it  is  the  same  story  yet.  All  our 
hopes  for  betterment,  all  our  battling  with  the  tene- 
ment-house question,  sum  themselves  up  in  the 
effort,  since  there  are  men  yet  who  would  take 
twenty-five  per  cent  and  run  that  risk,  to  compel 
them  to  take  seven  and  save  their  souls  for  them. 
I wanted  to  jump  up  in  my  seat  at  that  time  and 
shout  Amen ! But  I remembered  that  I was  a re- 
porter and  kept  still.  It  was  that  same  winter,  how- 
ever, that  I wrote  the  title  of  my  book,  “ How  the 
Other  Half  Lives,”  and  copyrighted  it.  The  book 
itself  did  not  come  until  two  years  after,  but  it  was 
as  good  as  written  then.  I had  my  text. 

It  was  at  that  Chickering  Hall  meeting  that  I 
heard  the  gospel  preached  to  the  poor  in  the  only 
way  that  will  ever  reach  them.  It  was  the  last  word 
that  was  said,  and  I have  always  believed  that  it 
was  not  exactly  in  the  plan.  I saw  some  venerable 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


249 


brethren  on  the  platform,  bishops  among  them, 
wince  when  Dr.  Charles  H.  Parkhurst,  rending  some 
eminently  respectable  platitudes  to  shreds  and  tat- 
ters, cried  out  for  personal  service,  loving  touch,  as 
the  key  to  it  all : — 

“ What  if,  when  the  poor  leper  came  to  the  Lord 
to  be  healed,  he  had  said  to  Peter,  or  some  other 
understrapper,  ‘ Here,  Peter,  you  go  touch  that  fel- 
low and  ril  pay  you  for  it’?  Or  what  if  the  Lord, 
when  he  came  on  earth,  had  come  a day  at  a time 
and  brought  his  lunch  with  him,  and  had  gone  home 
to  heaven  overnight?  Would  the  world  ever  have 
come  to  call  him  brother?  We  have  got  to  give, 
not  our  old  clothes,  not  our  prayers.  Those  are 
cheap.  You  can  kneel  down  on  a carpet  and  pray 
where  it  is  warm  and  comfortable.  Not  our  soup  — 
that  is  sometimes  very  cheap.  Not  our  money  — a 
stingy  man  will  give  money  when  he  refuses  to  give 
himself.  Just  so  soon  as  a man  feels  that  you  sit 
down  alongside  of  him  in  loving  sympathy  with  him, 
notwithstanding  his  poor,  notwithstanding  his  sick 
and  his  debased,  estate,  just  so  soon  you  begin  to 
worm  your  way  into  the  very  warmest  spot  in  his 
life.” 

It  was  plain  talk,  but  it  was  good.  They  whis- 
pered afterward  in  the  corners  about  the  “ lack  of 
discretion  of  that  good  man  Parkhurst.”  A little 
of  that  lack  would  go  a long  way  toward  cleaning 


250 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


up  in  New  York  — did  go,  not  so  many  years  after 
Worse  shocks  than  that  were  coming  from  the  same 
quarter  to  rattle  the  dry  bones. 

Long  before  that  the  “something  that  needed 
me  ” in  Mulberry  Street  had  come.  I was  in  a 
death-grapple  with  my  two  enemies,  the  police  lodg- 
ing-room and  the  Bend.  The  Adler  Commission 
had  proposed  to  “ break  the  back  ” of  the  latter  by 
cutting  Leonard  Street  through  the  middle  of  it  — 
an  expedient  that  had  been  suggested  forty  years 
before,  when  the  Five  Points  around  the  corner 
challenged  the  angry  resentment  of  the  community. 
But  no  expedient  would  ever  cover  that  case.  The 
whole  slum  had  to  go.  A bill  was  introduced  in 
the  Legislature  to  wipe  it  out  bodily,  and  in  1888, 
after  four  years  of  pulling  and  hauling,  we  had 
spunked  up  enough  to  file  maps  for  the  “ Mulberry 
Bend  Park.”  Blessed  promise!  And  it  was  kept, 
if  it  did  take  a prodigious  lot  of  effort,  for  right  there 
decency  had  to  begin,  or  not  at  all.  Go  and  look 
at  it  to-day  and  see  what  it  is  like. 

But  that  is  another  story.  The  other  nuisance 
came  first.  The  first  guns  that  I have  any  record 
of  were  fired  in  my  newspapers  in  1883,  and  from 
that  time  till  Theodore  Roosevelt  shut  up  the  vile 
dens  in  1895  the  battle  raged  without  intermission. 
The  guns  I speak  of  were  not  the  first  that  were 
fired  — they  were  the  first  I fired  so  far  as  I can 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


251 


find.  For  quite  a generation  before  that  there  had 
been  protests  and  complaints  from  the  police  sur- 
geons, the  policemen  themselves  who  hated  to  lodge 
under  one  roof  with  tramps,  from  citizen  bodies  that 
saw  in  the  system  an  outrage  upon  Christian  charity 
and  all  decency,  but  all  without  producing  any  other 
effect  than  spasmodic  whitewashing  and  the  ineffect- 
ual turning  on  of  the  hose.  Nothing  short  of  boil- 
ing water  would  have  cleansed  those  dens.  Nothing 
else  came  of  it,  because  stronger  even  than  the  self- 
ish motive  that  exploits  public  office  for  private 
gain  is  the  deadly  inertia  in  civic  life  which  simply 
means  that  we  are  all  as  lazy  as  things  will  let  us  be. 
The  older  I get,  the  more  patience  I have  with  the 
sinner,  and  the  less  with  the  lazy  good-for-nothing 
who  is  at  the  bottom  of  more  than  half  the  share  of 
the  world’s  troubles.  Give  me  the  thief  if  need  be, 
but  take  the  tramp  away  and  lock  him  up  at  hard 
labor  until  he  is  willing  to  fall  in  line  and  take  up 
his  end.  The  end  he  lets  lie  some  one  has  got  to 
carry  who  already  has  enough. 

I ran  to  earth  at  last  one  of  the  citizens’  bodies 
that  were  striving  with  the  nuisance,  and  went  and 
joined  it.  I will  not  say  that  I was  received  gra- 
ciously. I was  a reporter,  and  it  was  human  nature 
to  assume  that  I was  merely  after  a sensation  ; and 
I did  make  a sensation  of  the  campaign.  That  was 
the  way  to  put  life  into  it.  Page  after  page  I 


252 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


printed,  now  in  this  paper,  now  in  that,  and  when 
the  round  was  completed,  went  over  the  same  road 
again.  They  winced  a bit,  my  associates,  but  bore 
it,  egged  me  on  even.  Anything  for  a change. 
Perchance  it  might  help.  It  didn’t  then.  But 
slowly  something  began  to  stir.  The  editors  found 
something  to  be  indignant  about  when  there  was 
nothing  else.  Ponderous  leaders  about  our  “duty 
toward  the  poor”  appeared  at  intervals.  The  Grand 
Jury  on  its  tours  saw  and  protested.  The  City  Hall 
felt  the  sting  and  squirmed.  I remember  when  we 
went  to  argue  with  the  Board  of  Estimate  and  Ap- 
portionment under  Mayor  Grant.  It  was  my  first 
meeting  with  Mrs.  Josephine  Shaw  Lowell  and 
John  Finley,  but  not  the  last  by  a good  many,  thank 
God  for  that ! I had  gone  to  Boston  to  see  the 
humane  way  in  which  they  were  dealing  with  their 
homeless  there.  They  gave  them  a clean  shirt  and 
a decent  bed  and  a bath  — good  way,  that,  to  limit 
the  supply  of  tramps  — and  something  to  eat  in  the 
morning,  so  they  did  not  have  to  go  out  and  beg  the 
first  thing.  It  seemed  good  to  me,  and  it  was  good. 
But  the  Mayor  did  not  think  so. 

“ Boston  ! Boston  ! ” he  cried,  impatiently,  and 
waved  us  and  the  subject  aside.  “ I am  tired  of 
hearing  always  how  they  do  in  Boston,  and  of  the 
whole  matter.” 

So  were  we,  tired  enough  to  keep  it  up.  We 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


253 


came  back  next  time,  though  it  didn’t  do  any  good, 
and  meanwhile  the  newspaper  broadsides  continued. 
No  chance  was  allowed  to  pass  of  telling  the  people 
of  New  York  what  they  were  harboring.  They 
simply  needed  to  know,  I felt  sure  of  that.  And  I 
know  now  that  I was  right.  But  it  takes  a lot  of 
telling  to  make  a city  know  when  it  is  doing  wrong. 
However,  that  was  what  I was  there  for.  When  it 
didn’t  seem  to  help,  I would  go  and  look  at  a stone- 
cutter hammering  away  at  his  rock  perhaps  a hun- 
dred times  without  as  much  as  a crack  showing  in 
it.  Yet  at  the  hundred  and  first  blow  it  would  split 
in  two,  and  I knew  it  was  not  that  blow  that  did  it, 
but  all  that  had  gone  before  together.  When  my 
fellow-workers  smiled,  I used  to  remind  them  of  the 
Israelites  that  marched  seven  times  around  Jericho 
and  blew  their  horns  before  the  walls  fell. 

“ Well,  you  go  ahead  and  blow  yours,”  they  said ; 
“ you  have  the  faith.” 

And  I did,  and  the  walls  did  fall,  though  it  took 
nearly  twice  seven  years.  But  they  came  down,  as 
the  walls  of  ignorance  and  indifference  must  every 
time,  if  you  blow  hard  enough  and  long  enough, 
with  faith  in  your  cause  and  in  your  fellow-man.  It 
is  just  a question  of  endurance.  If  you  keep  it  up, 
they  can’t. 

They  began  to  give,  those  grim  walls,  when  typhus 
fever  broke  out  in  the  city  in  the  winter  of  1891-92. 


254 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


The  wonder  was  that  it  did  not  immediately  centre 
in  the  police  lodging-rooms.  There  they  lay,  young 
and  old,  hardened  tramps  and  young  castaways  with 
minds  and  souls  soft  as  wax  for  their  foulness  to  be 
stamped  upon,^  on  bare  floors  of  stone  or  planks. 


The  Lodging-room  at  the  Leonard  Street  Police  Station. 


Dirty  as  they  came  in  from  every  vile  contact,  they 
went  out  in  the  morning  to  scatter  from  door  to 

1 The  old  cry  of  sensation  mongering  was  raised  more  than  once 
when  I was  making  my  charges.  People  do  not  like  to  have  their  rest 
disturbed.  Particularly  did  the  critics  object  to  the  statement  that  there 
* were  young  people  in  the  dens;  they  were  all  old  tramps,  they  said. 
For  an  answer  I went  in  and  photographed  the  boys  and  girls  one 
night,  and  held  their  pictures  up  before  the  community.  In  the  Oak 
Street  Station  alone,  one  of  the  vilest,  there  were  six  as  likely  young 
fellows  as  I ever  saw,  herded  with  forty  tramps  and  thieves.  Not  one 
of  them  would  come  out  unscathed. 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


255 


door,  where  they  begged  their  breakfast,  the  seeds 
of  festering  disease.  Turning  the  plank  was  “mak- 
ing the  bed.”  Typhus  is  a filth-disease,  of  all  the 
most  dreaded.  If  ever  it  got  a foothold  in  those 
dens,  there  was  good  cause  for  fear.  I drew  up  at 
once  a remonstrance,  had  it  signed  by  representa- 
tives of  the  united  charitable  societies  — some  of 
them  shrugged  their  shoulders,  but  they  signed  — 
and  took  it  to  the  Health  Board.  They  knew  the 
danger  better  than  I.  But  the  time  had  not  yet 
come.  Perhaps  they  thought,  with  the  reporters, 
that  I was  just  “making  copy.”  For  I made  a 
“beat”  of  the  story.  Of  course  I did.  We  were 
fighting ; and  if  I could  brace  the  boys  up  to  the 
point  of  running  their  own  campaigns  for  making 
things  better,  so  much  was  gained.  But  they  did 
not  take  the  hint.  They  just  denounced  my 
“ treachery.” 

I warned  them  that  there  would  be  trouble  with 
the  lodging-rooms,  and  within  eleven  months  the 
prophecy  came  true.  The  typhus  broke  out  there. 
The  night  after  the  news  had  come  I took  my  cam- 
era and  flashlight  and  made  the  round  of  the  dens, 
photographing  them  all  with  their  crowds.  Of  the 
negatives  I had  lantern-slides  made,  and  with  these 
under  my  arm  knocked  at  the  doors  of  the  Academy 
of  Medicine,  demanding  to  be  let  in.  That  was  the 
place  for  that  discussion,  it  seemed  to  me,  for  the 


256 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


doctors  knew  the  real  extent  of  the  peril  we  were 
then  facing.  Typhus  is  no  respecter  of  persons, 
and  it  is  impossible  to  guard  against  it  as  against  the 
smallpox.  They  let  me  in,  and  that  night’s  doings 
gave  the  cause  of  decency  a big  push.  I think  that 
was  the  first  time  I told  the  real  story  of  my  dog. 
I had  always  got  around  it  somehow ; it  choked  me 
even  then,  twenty  years  after  and  more,  anger  boiled 
up  in  me  so  at  the  recollection. 

We  pleaded  merely  for  the  execution  of  a law 
that  had  been  on  the  statute-books  six  years  and 
over,  permitting  the  city  authorities  to  establish  a 
decent  lodging-house ; but  though  the  police,  the 
health  officials,  the  grand  jury,  the  charitable  socie- 
ties, and  about  everybody  of  any  influence  in  the 
community  fell  in  behind  the  medical  profession  in 
denouncing  the  evils  that  were,  we  pleaded  in  vain. 
The  Tammany  officials  at  the  City  Hall  told  us  in- 
solently to  go  ahead  and  build  lodging-houses  our- 
selves; they  had  other  things  to  use  the  city’s 
money  for  than  to  care  for  the  homeless  poor ; 
which,  indeed,  was  true.  The  Charity  Organization 
Society  that  stood  for  all  the  rest  gave  up  in  dis- 
couragement and  announced  its  intention  to  start  a 
Wayfarer’s  Lodge  itself,  on  the  Boston  plan,  and 
did  so.  “You  see,”  was  the  good-by  with  which 
my  colaborers  left  me,  “ we  will  never  succeed.” 
My  campaign  had  collapsed. 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


257 


But  even  then  we  were  winning.  Never  was 
defeat  in  all  that  time  that  did  not  in  the  end  turn 
out  a step  toward  victory.  This  much  the  unceas- 
ing agitation  had  effected,  though  its  humane  pur- 
pose made  no  impression  on  the  officials,  that  the 
accommodation  for  lodgers  in  the  station-houses 
was  sensibly  shrunk.  Where  there  had  been  forty 
that  took  them  in,  there  were  barely  two  dozen  left. 
The  demand  for  separate  women’s  prisons  with 
police  matrons  in  charge,  which  was  one  of  the 
phases  the  new  demand  for  decency  was  assuming, 
bred  a scarcity  of  house-room,  and  one  by  one  the 
foul  old  dens  were  closed  and  not  reopened.  The 
nuisance  was  perishing  of  itself.  Each  time  a piece 
of  it  sloughed  off,  I told  the  story  again  in  print, 
“ lest  we  forget.”  In  another  year  reform  came,  and 
with  it  came  Roosevelt.  The  Committee  on  Va- 
grancy, a volunteer  body  of  the  Charity  Organization 
Society,  of  which  Mrs.  Lowell  was  the  head  and  I a 
member,  unlimbered  its  guns  again  and  opened  fire, 
and  this  time  the  walls  came  down.  For  Tammany 
was  out. 

We  had  been  looking  the  police  over  by  night, 
Roosevelt  and  I.  We  had  inspected  the  lodging- 
rooms  while  I went  over  the  long  fight  with  him, 
and  had  come  at  last,  at  2 a.m.,  to  the  Church  Street 
Station.  It  was  rainino*  outside.  The  lie^ht  flick- 
ered,  cold  and  cheerless,  in  the  green  lamps  as  we 


258 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


went  up  the  stone  steps.  Involuntarily  I looked  in 
the  corner  for  my  little  dog;  but  it  was  not  there, 
or  any  one  who  remembered  it.  The  sergeant 
glanced  over  his  blotter  grimly ; I had  almost  to 
pinch  myself  to  make  sure  I was  not  shivering  in  a 
linen  duster,  wet  to  the  skin.  Down  the  cellar  steps 


The  Church  Street  Station  Lodging-room,  in  which  I was  robbed. 

to  the  men’s  lodging-room  I led  the  President  of  the 
Police  Board.  It  was  unchanged  — just  as  it  was 
the  day  I slept  there.  Three  men  lay  stretched  at 
full  length  on  the  dirty  planks,  two  of  them  young 
lads  from  the  country.  Standing  there,  I told  Mr. 
Roosevelt  my  own  story.  He  turned  alternately 
red  and  white  with  anger  as  he  heard  it. 

“ Did  they  do  that  to  you  ? ” he  asked  when  I had 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


259 


ended.  For  an  answer  I pointed  to  the  young  lads 
then  asleep  before  him. 

“ I was  like  this  one,”  I said. 

He  struck  his  clenched  fists  together.  “ I will 
smash  them  to-morrow.” 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  The  very  next  day 
the  Police  Board  took  the  matter  up.  Provision 
was  made  for  the  homeless  on  a barge  in  the  East 
River  until  plans  could  be  perfected  for  sifting  the 
tramps  from  the  unfortunate ; and  within  a week, 
on  recommendation  of  the  Chief  of  Police,  orders 
were  issued  to  close  the  doors  of  the  police  lodging- 
rooms  on  February  15,  1896,  never  again  to  be  un- 
barred. 

The  battle  was  won.  The  murder  of  my  dog 
was  avenged,  and  forgiven,  after  twenty-five  years. 
The  yellow  newspapers,  with  the  true  instinct  that 
made  them  ever  recognize  in  Roosevelt  the  impla- 
cable enemy  of  all  they  stood  for,  printed  cartoons 
of  homeless  men  shivering  at  a barred  door  “ closed 
by  order  of  T.  Roosevelt  ” ; but  they  did  not,  after 
all,  understand  the  man  they  were  attacking.  That 
the  thing  was  right  was  enough  for  him.  Their 
shafts  went  wide  of  the  mark,  or  fell  harmless.  The 
tramps  for  whom  New  York  had  been  a paradise 
betook  themselves  to  other  towns  not  so  discerning 
— went  to  Chicago,  where  the  same  wicked  system 
was  in  operation  until  last  spring,  is  yet  for  all  I 


26o 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


know  — and  the  honestly  homeless  got  a chance. 
A few  tender-hearted  and  soft-headed  citizens,  of 
the  kind  who  ever  obstruct  progress  by  getting 
some  very  excellent  but  vagrant  impulses  mixed 
up  with  a lack  of  common  sense,  wasted  their  sym- 
pathy upon  the  departing  hobo,  but  soon  tired  of  it. 
I remember  the  case  of  one  tramp  whose  beat  was 
in  the  block  in  Thirty-fifth  Street  in  which  Dr. 
Parkhurst  lives.  He  was  arrested  for  insolence  to 
a housekeeper  who  refused  him  food.  The  magis- 
trate discharged  him,  with  some  tearful  remarks 
about  the  world’s  cruelty  and  the  right  of  a man 
to  be  poor  without  being  accounted  a criminal. 
Thus  encouraged,  the  tramp  went  right  back  and 
broke  the  windows  of  the  house  that  had  repelled 
him.  I presume  he  is  now  in  the  city  by  the 
lake  holding  up  people  who  offend  him  by  being 
more  industrious  and  consequently  more  prosper- 
ous than  he. 

For  the  general  results  of  the  victory  so  labori- 
ously achieved  I must  refer  to^“A  Ten  Years’ 
War,”  in  which  I endeavored  to  sum  up  the  situa- 
tion as  I saw  it.  They  are  not  worked  out  yet  to 
the  full.  The  most  important  link  is  missing. 
That  is  to  be  a farm-school  which  shall  sift  the 
young  idler  from  the  heap  of  chaff,  and  win  him 
back  to  habits  of  industry  and  to  the  world  of  men. 
It  will  come  when  moral  purpose  has  been  reestab- 

1 Now,  “The  Battle  with  the  Slum.” 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


261 

lished  at  the  City  Hall.  I have  not  set  out  here  to 
discuss  reform  and  its  merits,  but  merely  to  point 
out  that  the  way  of  it,  the  best  way  of  bringing  it 
on  — indeed,  the  only  way  that  is  always  open  — is 
to  make  the  facts  of  the  wrong  plain.  And,  having 
said  that,  I have  put  the  reporter  where  he  belongs 
and  answered  the 
question  why  I have 
never  wanted  execu- 
tive office  and  never 
will. 

And  now,  in  tak- 
ing leave  of  this  sub- 
ject, of  which  I hope 
I may  never  hear 
again,  for  it  has 
plagued  me  enough 
and  had  its  full  share 
of  my  life,  is  there 
not  one  ray  of  bright- 
ness that  falls  athwart  its  gloom?  Were  they  all 
bad,  those  dens  I hated,  yes,  hated,  with  the  shame 
and  the  sorrow  and  hopeless  surrender  they  stood 
for?  Was  there  not  one  glimpse  of  mercy  that 
dwells  in  the  memory  with  redeeming  touch?  Yes, 
one.  Let  it  stand  as  testimony  that  on  the  brink 
of  hell  itself  human  nature  is  not  wholly  lost.  There 
is  still  the  spark  of  His  image,  however  overlaid  by 


The  Yellow  Newspapers’  Contribution. 


262 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  slum.  And  let  it  forever  wipe  out  the  score  of 
my  dog,  and  mine.  It  was  in  one  of  the  worst  that 
I came  upon  a young  girl,  pretty,  innocent  — Heaven 
knows  how  she  had  landed  there.  She  hid  her  head 
in  her  apron  and  wept  bitterly  with  the  shame  of 
the  thing.'  Around  her  half  a dozen  old  hags,  rum- 
sodden  and  foul,  camped  on  the  stone  floor.  As  in 
passing  I stooped  over  the  weeping  girl,  one  of 
them,  thinking  I was  one  of  the  men  about  the 
place,  and  misunderstanding  my  purpose,  sprang 
between  us  like  a tigress  and  pushed  me  back. 

“Not  her!”  she  cried,  and  shook  her  fist  at  me; 
“not  her!  It  is  all  right  with  us.  We  are  old  and 
tough.  But  she  is  young,  and  don’t  you  dare  ! ” 

I went  out  and  stood  under  the  stars,  and  thanked 
God  that  I was  born.  Only  tramps ! It  had  been 
dinned  into  my  ears  until  I said  it  myself,  God  for- 
give me  ! Aye,  that  was  what  we  had  made  of  them 
with  our  infernal  machinery  of  rum-shop,  tenement, 
dive,  and — this  place.  With  Christian  charity 
instead,  what  might  they  not  have  been.? 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 

If  there  be  any  to  whom  the  travail  through  which 
we  have  just  come  seems  like  a mighty  tempest  in  a 
teapot,  let  him  quit  thinking  so.  It  was  not  a small 
matter.  To  be  sure,  the  wrong  could  have  been 
undone  in  a day  by  the  authorities,  had  they  been 
so  minded.  That  it  was  not  undone  was  largely, 
and  illogically,  because  no  one  had  a word  to  say  in 
its  defence.  When  there  are  two  sides  to  a thing, 
it  is  not  difficult  to  get  at  the  right  of  it  in  an  argu- 
ment, and  to  carry  public  opinion  for  the  right.  But 
wlien  there  is  absolutely  nothing  to  be  said  against 
a proposed  reform,  it  seems  to  be  human  nature  — 
American  human  nature,  at  all  events  — to  expect 
it  to  carry  itself  through  with  the  general  good 
wishes  but  no  particular  lift  from  any  one.  It  is  a 
very  charming  expression  of  our  faith  in  the  power 
of  the  right  to  make  its  way,  only  it  is  all  wrong : it 
will  not  make  its  way  in  the  generation  that  sits  by 
to  see  it  move.  It  has  got  to  be  moved  along,  like 
everything  else  in  this  world,  by  men.  That  is  how 
we  take  title  to  the  name.  That  is  what  is  the  mat- 

263 


264 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


ter  with  half  our  dead-letter  laws.  The  other  half 
were  just  still-born.  It  is  so,  at  this  moment,  with 
the  children’s  playgrounds  in  New  York.  Probably 
all  thinking  people  subscribe  to-day  to  the  statement 
that  it  is  the  business  of  the  municipality  to  give  its 
children  a chance  to  play,  just  as  much  as  to  give 
them  schools  to  go  to.  Everybody  applauds  it. 
The  authorities  do  not  question  it;  but  still  they 
do  not  provide  playgrounds.  Private  charity  has 
to  keep  a beggarly  half-dozen  going  where  there 
ought  to  be  forty  or  fifty,  as  a matter  of  right,  not 
of  charity.  Call  it  official  conservatism,  inertia, 
treachery,  call  it  by  soft  names  or  hard ; in  the  end 
it  comes  to  this,  I suppose,  that  it  is  the  whetstone 
upon  which  our  purpose  is  sharpened,  and  in  that 
sense  we  have  apparently  got  to  be  thankful  for  it. 
So  a man  may  pummel  his  adversary  and  accept 
him  as  a means  of  grace  at  the  same  time.  If 
there  were  no  snags,  there  would  be  no  wits  to 
clear  them  away,  or  strong  arms  to  wield  the  axe. 
It  was  the  same  story  with  the  Mulberry  Bend. 
Until  the  tramp  lodging-houses  were  closed,  until 
the  Bend  was  gone,  it  seemed  as  if  progress  were 
flat  down  impossible.  As  I said,  decency  had  to 
begin  there,  or  not  at  all. 

Before  I tackle  the  Bend,  perhaps  I had  better 
explain  how  I came  to  take  up  photographing  as 
a — no,  not  exactly  as  a pastime.  It  was  never  that 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


265 


The  Mulberry  Bend  as  it  was. 

with  me.  I had  use  for  it,  and  beyond  that  I never 
went.  I am  downright  sorry  to  confess  here  that  I 
am  no  good  at  all  as  a photographer,  for  I would 
like  to  be.  The  thing  is  a constant  marvel  to  me, 
and  an  unending  delight.  To  watch  the  picture 
come  out  upon  the  plate  that  was  blank  before,  and 
that  saw  with  me  for  perhaps  the  merest  fraction  of 
a second,  maybe  months  before,  the  thing  it  has 
never  forgotten,  is  a new  miracle  every  time.  If  I 
were  a clergyman  I would  practise  photography  and 
preach  about  it.  But  I am  jealous  of  the  miracle. 
I do  not  want  it  explained  to  me  in  terms  of  HO2 


266 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


or  such  like  formulas,  learned,  but  so  hopelessly 
unsatisfying.  I do  not  want  my  butterfly  stuck  on 
a pin  and  put  in  a glass  case.  I want  to  see  the 
sunlight  on  its  wings  as  it  flits  from  flower  to  flower, 
and  I don’t  care  a rap  what  its  Latin  name  may  be. 
Anyway,  it  is  not  its  name.  The  sun  and  the  flower 
and  the  butterfly  know  that.  The  man  who  sticks 
a pin  in  it  does  not,  and  never  will,  for  he  knows 
not  its  language.  Only  the  poet  does  among  men. 
So,  you  see,  I am  disqualified  from  being  a pho- 
tographer. Also,  I am  clumsy,  and  impatient  of 
details.  The  axe  was  ever  more  to  my  liking  than 
the  graving-tool.  I have  lived  to  see  the  day  of  the 
axe  and  enjoy  it,  and  now  I rejoice  in  the  coming  of 
the  men  and  women  who  know;  the  Jane  Addamses, 
who  to  heart  add  knowledge  and  training,  and  with 
gentle  hands  bind  up  wounds  which,  alas ! too  often 
I struck.  It  is  as  it  should  be.  I only  wish  they 
would  see  it  and  leave  me  out  for  my  sins. 

But  there ! I started  out  to  tell  about  how  I came 
to  be  a photographer,  and  here  I am,  off  on  the  sub- 
ject of  philanthropy  and  social  settlements.  To  be 
precise,  then,  I began  taking  pictures  by  proxy.  It 
was  upon  my  midnight  trips  with  the  sanitary  police 
that  the  wish  kept  cropping  up  in  me  that  there 
were  some  way  of  putting  before  the  people  what 
I saw  there.  A drawing  might  have  done  it,  but 
I cannot  draw,  never  could.  There  are  certain 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  267 

sketches  of  mine  now  on  record  that  always  arouse 
the  boisterous  hilarity  of  the  family.  They  were 
made  for  the  instruction  of  our  first  baby  in  wolf- 
lore,  and  I know  they  were  highly  appreciated  by 
him  at  the  time.  Maybe  the  fashion  in  wolves  has 
changed  since.  But,  anyway,  a drawing  would  not 
have  been  evidence  of  the  kind  I wanted.  We  used 
to  go  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  into  the 
worst  tenements  to  count  noses  and  see  if  the  law 
against  overcrowding  was  violated,  and  the  sights  I 
saw  there  gripped  my  heart  until  I felt  that  I must 
tell  of  them,  or  burst,  or  turn  anarchist,  or  some- 
thing. “ A man  may  be  a man  even  in  a palace  ” 
in  modern  New  York  as  in  ancient  Rome,  but  not 
in  a slum  tenement.  So  it  seemed  to  me,  and  in 
anger  I looked  around  for  something  to  strike  off 
his  fetters  with.  But  there  was  nothing. 

I wrote,  but  it  seemed  to  make  no  impression. 
One  morning,  scanning  my  newspaper  at  the  break- 
fast table,  I put  it  down  with  an  outcry  that  startled 
my  wife,  sitting  opposite.  There  it  was,  the  thing 
I had  been  looking  for  all  those  years.  A four-line 
despatch  from  somewhere  in  Germany,  if  I remem- 
ber right,  had  it  all.  A way  had  been  discovered, 
it  ran,  to  take  pictures  by  flashlight.  The  darkest 
corner  might  be  photographed  that  way.  I went 
to  the  office  full  of  the  idea,  and  lost  no  time  in 
looking  up  Dr.  John  T.  Nagle,  at  the  time  in  charge 


268 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


of  the  Bureau  of  Vital  Statistics  in  the  Health  De- 
partment, to  tell  him  of  it.  Dr.  Nagle  was  an 
amateur  photographer  of  merit  and  a good  fellow 
besides,  who  entered  into  my  plans  with  great  readi- 
ness. The  news  had  already  excited  much  interest 
among  New  York  photographers,  professional  and 
otherwise,  and  no  time  was  lost  in  communicating 
with  the  other  side.  Within  a fortnight  a raiding 
party  composed  of  Dr.  Henry  G.  Piffard  and  Rich- 
ard Hoe  Lawrence,  two  distinguished  amateurs.  Dr. 
Nagle  and  myself,  and  sometimes  a policeman  or 
two,  invaded  the  East  Side  by  night,  bent  on  letting 
in  the  light  where  it  was  so  much  needed. 

At  least  that  was  my  purpose.  To  the  photog- 
raphers it  was  a voyage  of  discovery  of  the  great- 
est interest ; but  the  interest  centred  in  the  camera 
and  the  flashlight.  The  police  went  along  from 
curiosity ; sometimes  for  protection.  For  that  they 
were  hardly  needed.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
our  party  carried  terror  wherever  it  went.  The 
flashlight  of  those  days  was  contained  in  cartridges 
fired  from  a revolver.  The  spectacle  of  half  a dozen 
strange  men  invading  a house  in  the  midnight  hour 
armed  with  big  pistols  which  they  shot  off  recklessly 
was  hardly  reassuring,  however  sugary  our  speech, 
and  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  if  the  tenants 
bolted  through  windows  and  down  fire-escapes 
wherever  we  went.  But  as  no  one  was  murdered. 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  269 

things  calmed  down  after  a while,  though  months 
after  I found  the  recollection  of  our  visits  hanging 
over  a Stanton  Street  block  like  a nightmare.  We 
got  some  good  pictures;  but  very  soon  the  slum  and 
the  awkward  hours  palled  upon  the  amateurs.  I 
found  myself  alone  just  when  I needed  help  most. 


“The  tenants  bolted  through  the  windows.’’ 

I had  made  out  by  the  flashlight  possibilities  my 
companions  little  dreamed  of. 

I hired  a professional  photographer  next  whom  I 
found  in  dire  straits.  He  was  even  less  willing  to 
get  up  at  2 A.M.  than  my  friends  who  had  a good 
excuse.  He  had  none,  for  I paid  him  well.  He 
repaid  me  by  trying  to  sell  my  photographs  behind 
my  back.  I had  to  replevin  the  negatives  to  get 


2/0 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


them  away  from  him.  He  was  a pious  man,  I take 
it,  for  when  I tried  to  have  him  photograph  the 
waifs  in  the  baby  nursery  at  the  Five  Points  House 
of  Industry,  as  they  were  saying  their  “ Now  I lay 
me  down  to  sleep,”  and  the  plate  came  out  blank 
the  second  time,  he  owned  up  that  it  was  his  doing  : 
it  went  against  his  principles  to  take  a picture  of 
any  one  at  prayers.  So  I had  to  get  another  man 
with  some  trouble  and  expense.  But  on  the  whole 
I think  the  experience  was  worth  what  it  cost.  The 
spectacle  of  a man  prevented  by  religious  scruples 
from  photographing  children  at  prayers,  while  plot- 
ting at  the  same  time  to  rob  his  employer,  has  been 
a kind  of  chart  to  me  that  has  piloted  me  through 
more  than  one  quagmire  of  queer  human  nature. 
Nothing  could  stump  me  after  that.  The  man  was 
just  as  sincere  in  the  matter  of  his  scruple  as  he 
was  rascally  in  his  business  dealings  with  me. 

There  was  at  last  but  one  way  out  of  it ; namely, 
for  me  to  get  a camera  myself.  This  I did,  and 
with  a dozen  plates  took  myself  up  the  Sound  to 
the  Potter’s  Field  on  its  desert  island  to  make  my 
first  observations.  There  at  least  I should  be  alone, 
with  no  one  to  bother  me.  And  I wanted  a picture 
of  the  open  trench.  I got  it,  too.  When  I say 
that  with  the  sunlight  of  a January  day  on  the 
white  snow  I exposed  that  extra-quick  instantaneous 
plate  first  for  six  seconds,  then  for  twelve,  to  make 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


271 


sure  I got  the  picture,^  and  then  put  the  plate-holder 
back  among  the  rest  so  that  I did  not  know  which 
was  which,  amateur  photographers  will  understand 
the  situation.  I had  to  develop  the  whole  twelve 
to  get  one  picture.  That  was  so  dark,  almost  black, 
from  over-exposure  as  to  be  almost  hopeless.  But 
where  there  is  life  there  is  hope,  if  you  can  apply 
that  maxim  to  the  Potter’s  Field,  where  there  are 
none  but  dead  men.  The  very  blackness  of  my 
picture  proved  later  on,  when  I came  to  use  it  with 
a magic  lantern,  the  taking  feature  of  it.  It  added 
a gloom  to  the  show  more  realistic  than  any  the 
utmost  art  of  professional  skill  might  have  attained. 

So  I became  a photographer,  after  a fashion,  and 
thereafter  took  the  pictures  myself.  I substituted 
a frying-pan  for  the  revolver,  and  flashed  the  light 
on  that.  It  seemed  more  homelike.  But,  as  I said, 
I am  clumsy.  Twice  I set  fire  to  the  house  with 
the  apparatus,  and  once  to  myself.  I blew  the  light 
into  my  own  eyes  on  that  occasion,  and  only  my  spec- 
tacles saved  me  from  being  blinded  for  life.  For 
more  than  an  hour  after  I could  see  nothing  and 
was  led  about  by  my  companion,  helpless.  Photo- 
graphing Joss  in  Chinatown  nearly  caused  a riot 

^Men  are  ever  prone  to  doubt  what  they  cannot  understand.  With 
all  the  accumulated  information  on  the  subject,  even  to  this  day,  when 
it  comes  to  taking  a snap-shot,  at  the  last  moment  I weaken  and  take 
it  under  protest,  refusing  to  believe  that  it  can  be.  A little  more  faith 
would  make  a much  better  photographer  of  me. 


272  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

there.  It  seems  that  it  was  against  their  reli- 
gious principles.  Peace  was  made  only  upon  ex- 
press assurance  being  given  the  guardians  of  Joss 
that  his  picture  would  be  hung  in  the  “ gallery  at 
Police  Headquarters.”  They  took  it  as  a compli- 
ment. The  “ gallery  ” at  Headquarters  is  the  rogues’ 
gallery,  not  generally  much  desired.  Those  Chinese 
are  a queer  lot,  but  when  I remembered  my  Chris- 
tian friend  of  the  nursery  I did  not  find  it  in  me  to 
blame  them.  Once,  when  I was  taking  pictures 
about  Hell’s  Kitchen,  I was  confronted  by  a wild- 
looking man  with  a club,  who  required  me  to  sub- 
scribe to  a general  condemnation  of  reporters  as 
“ hardly  fit  to  be  flayed  alive,”  before  he  would  let 
me  go ; the  which  I did  with  a right  good  will, 
though  with  somewhat  of  a mental  reservation  in 
favor  of  my  rivals  in  Mulberry  Street,  who  just  then 
stood  in  need  of  special  correction. 

What  with  one  thing  and  another,  and  in  spite  of 
all  obstacles,  I got  my  pictures,  and  put  some  of 
them  to  practical  use  at  once.  I recall  a midnight 
expedition  to  the  Mulberry  Bend  with  the  sanitary 
police  that  had  turned  up  a couple  of  characteristic 
cases  of  overcrowding.  In  one  instance  two  rooms 
that  should  at  most  have  held  four  or  five  sleepers 
were  found  to  contain  fifteen,  a week-old  baby  among 
them.  Most  of  them  were  lodgers  and  slept  there 
for  “ five  cents  a spot.”  There  was  no  pretence  of 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


273 


beds.  When  the  report  was  submitted  to  the 
Health  Board  the  next  day,  it  did  not  make  much 
of  an  impression  — these  things  rarely  do,  put  in 
mere  words  — until  my  negatives,  still  dripping  from 


Lodgers  at  Five  Cents  a Spot. 

the  dark-room,  came  to  reenforce  them.  From  them 
there  was  no  appeal.  It  was  not  the  only  instance 
of  the  kind  by  a good  many.  Neither  the  landlord’s 
protests  nor  the  tenant’s  plea  “ went  ” in  face  of  the 
camera’s  evidence,  and  I was  satisfied. 

I had  at  last  an  ally  in  the  fight  with  the  Bend. 
It  was  needed,  worse  even  than  in  the  campaign 
against  the  police  lodging-houses,  for  in  that  we 
were  a company ; in  the  Bend  I was  alone.  From 


274 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  day — I think  it  was  in  the  winter  of  1886  — 
when  it  was  officially  doomed  to  go  by  act  of  legis- 
lature until  it  did  go,  nine  years  later,  I cannot 
remember  that  a cat  stirred  to  urge  it  on.  Whether 
it  was  that  it  had  been  bad  so  long  that  people 
thought  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  or  because  the 
Five  Points  had  taken  all  the  reform  the  Sixth 
Ward  had  coming  to  it,  or  because,  by  a sort  of 
tacit  consent,  the  whole  matter  was  left  to  me  as 
the  recognized  Mulberry  Bend  crank  — whichever 
it  was,  this  last  was  the  practical  turn  it  took.  I 
was  left  to  fight  it  out  by  myself.  Which  being  so, 
I laid  in  a stock  of  dry  plates  and  buckled  to. 

The  Bend  was  a much  jollier  adversary  than  the 
police  lodging-houses.  It  kicked  back.  It  did  not 
have  to  be  dragged  into  the  discussion  at  intervals, 
but  crowded  in  unbidden.  In  the  twenty  years  of 
my  acquaintance  with  it  as  a reporter  I do  not 
believe  there  was  a week  in  which  it  was  not  heard 
from  in  the  police  reports,  generally  in  connection 
with  a crime  of  violence,  a murder  or  a stabbing 
affray.  It  was  usually  on  Sunday,  when  the  Italians 
who  lived  there  were  idle  and  quarrelled  over  their 
cards.  Every  fight  was  the  signal  for  at  least  two 
more,  sometimes  a dozen,  for  they  clung  to  their 
traditions  and  met  all  efforts  of  the  police  to  get  at 
the  facts  with  their  stubborn  “ fix  him  myself.”  And 
when  the  detectives  had  given  up  in  dismay  and 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


275 


the  man  who  was  cut  had  got  out  of  the  hospital, 
pretty  soon  there  was  news  of  another  fight,  and 
the  feud  had  been  sent  on  one  step.  By  far  the 
most  cheering  testimony  that  our  Italian  is  becom- 
ing one  of  us  came  to  me  a year  or  two  ago  in  the 
evidence  that  on  two  occasions  Mulberry  Street  had 
refused  to  hide  a murderer  even  in  his  own  village.^ 
That  was  conclusive.  It  was  not  so  in  those  days. 
So,  between  the  vendetta,  the  mafia,  the  ordinary 
neighborhood  feuds,  and  the  Bend  itself,  always  pic- 
turesque if  outrageously  dirty,  it  was  not  hard  to  keep 
it  in  the  foreground.  My  scrap-book  from  the  year 
1883  to  1896  is  one  running  comment  on  the  Bend 
and  upon  the  official  indolence  that  delayed  its  demo- 
lition nearly  a decade  after  it  had  been  decreed.  But 
it  all  availed  nothing  to  hurry  up  things,  until,  in  a 
swaggering  moment,  after  four  years  of  that  sort  of 
thing,  one  of  the  City  Hall  officials  condescended 
to  inform  me  of  the  real  cause  of  the  delay.  It  was 
simply  that  “ no  one  down  there  had  been  taking 
any  interest  in  the  thing.” 

I could  not  have  laid  it  out  for  him  to  suit  my 
case  better  than  he  did.  It  was  in  the  silly  season, 

^ The  Italians  here  live  usually  grouped  by  “ villages,”  that  is,  those 
from  the  same  community  with  the  same  patron  saint  keep  close  to- 
^^ether.  The  saint's  name-day  is  their  local  holiday.  If  the  police 
want  to  find  an  Italian  scamp,  they  find  out  first  from  what  village  he 
hails,  then  it  is  a simple  matter,  usually,  to  find  where  he  is  located  in 
the  city. 


276 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Bandits’  Roost  — a Mulberry  Bend  Alley. 


and  the  newspapers  fell  greedily  upon  the  sensation 
I made.  The  Bend,  moreover,  smelled  rather  worse 
than  usual  that  August.  They  made  “ the  people’s 
cause  ” their  own,  and  shouted  treason  until  the 
commission  charged  with  condemning  the  Bend 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


277 


actually  did  meet  and  greased  its  wheels.  But  at 
the  next  turn  they  were  down  in  a rut  again,  and  the 
team  had  to  be  prodded  some  more.  It  had  taken 
two  years  to  get  a map  of  the  proposed  park  filed 
under  the  law  that  authorized  the  laying  out  of  it. 
The  commission  consumed  nearly  six  years  in  con- 
demning the  forty-one  lots  of  property,  and  charged 
the  city  $45,498.60  for  it.  The  Bend  itself  cost  a 
million,  and  an  assessment  of  half  a million  was  laid 
upon  surrounding  property  for  the  supposed  benefit 
of  making  it  over  from  a pig-sty  into  a park.  Those 
property-owners  knew  better.  They  hired  a lawyer 
who  in  less  than  six  weeks  persuaded  the  Legisla- 
ture that  it  was  an  injury,  not  a benefit.  The  town 
had  to  foot  the  whole  bill.  But  at  last  it  owned  the 
Bend. 

Instead  of  destroying  it  neck  and  crop,  it  settled 
down  complacently  to  collect  the  rents ; that  is  to 
say,  such  rents  as  it  could  collect.  A good  many 
of  the  tenants  refused  to  pay,  and  lived  rent  free 
for  a year.  It  was  a rare  chance  for  the  reporter, 
and  I did  not  miss  it.  The  city  as  landlord  in  the 
Bend  was  fair  game.  The  old  houses  came  down 
at  last,  and  for  a twelvemonth,  while  a reform  gov- 
ernment sat  at  the  City  Hall,  the  three-acre  lot  lay, 
a veritable  slough  of  despond  filled  with  unutter- 
able nastiness,  festering  in  the  sight  of  men.  No 
amount  of  prodding  seemed  able  to  get  it  out  of 


2/8  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

that,  and  all  the  while  money  given  for  the  relief 
of  the  people  was  going  to  waste  at  the  rate  of  a 
million  dollars  a year.  The  Small  Parks  Act  of 
1887  appropriated  that  amount,  and  it  was  to  be 
had  for  the  asking.  But  no  one  who  had  the 
authority  asked,  and  as  the  appropriation  was  not 
cumulative,  each  passing  year  saw  the  loss  of  just 
so  much  to  the  cause  of  decency  that  was  waiting 
without.  Eight  millions  had  been  thrown  away 
when  they  finally  came  to  ask  a million  and  a half 
to  pay  for  the  Mulberry  Bend  park,  and  then  they 
had  to  get  a special  law  and  a special  appropriation 
because  the  amount  was  more  than  “ a million  in 
one  year.”  This  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  we  were 
then  in  the  Christmas  holidays  with  one  year  just 
closing  and  the  other  opening,  each  with  its  un- 
claimed appropriation.  I suggested  that  to  the 
powers  that  were,  but  they  threw  up  their  hands : 
that  would  have  been  irregular  and  quite  without 
precedent.  Oh,  for  irregularity  enough  to  throttle 
precedent  finally  and  for  good  ! It  has  made  more 
mischief  in  the  world,  I verily  believe,  than  all  the 
other  lawbreakers  together.  At  the  very  outset  it 
had  wrecked  my  hopes  of  getting  the  first  school 
playground  in  New  York  planted  in  the  Bend  by 
simply  joining  park  and  school  together.  There 
was  a public  school  in  the  block  that  went  with  the 
rest.  The  Small  Parks  Law  expressly  provided  for 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  279 

the  construction  of  “ such  and  so  many  ” buildings 
for  the  comfort,  health,  and  “instruction”  of  the 
people,  as  might  be  necessary.  But  a school  in  a 
park!  The  thing  had  never  been  heard  of.  It 
would  lead  to  conflict  between  two  departments! 
And  to  this  day  there  is  no  playground  in  the  Mul- 
berry Bend,  though  the  school  is  right  opposite. 


Bottle  Alley,  Mulberry  Bend.  Headquarters  of  the  Whyo  Gang. 

It  was,  nevertheless,  that  sort  of  thing  that  lent 
the  inspiration  which  in  the  end  made  the  old  Bend 
go.  It  was  when,  in  the  midst  of  the  discussion, 
they  showed  me  a check  for  three  cents,  hung  up 
and  framed  in  the  Comptroller’s  office  as  a kind  of 


28o 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


red-tape  joss  for  the  clerks  to  kow-tow  to,  I suppose. 
They  were  part  of  the  system  it  glorified.  The 
three  cents  had  miscarried  in  the  purchase  of  a 
school  site,  and,  when  the  error  was  found,  were 
checked  out  with  all  the  fuss  and  flourish  of  a 
transaction  in  millions  and  at  a cost,  I was  told,  of 
fifty  dollars’  worth  of  time  and  trouble.  Therefore 
it  was  hung  up  to  be  forever  admired  as  the  ripe 
fruit  of  an  infallible  system.  No  doubt  it  will  be 
there  when  another  Tweed  has  cleaned  out  the 
city’s  treasury  to  the  last  cent.  However,  it  sug- 
gested a way  out  to  me.  Two  could  play  at  that 
game.  There  is  a familiar  principle  of  sanitary 
law,  expressed  in  more  than  one  ordinance,  that 
no  citizen  has  a right  to  maintain  a nuisance  on  his 
premises  because  he  is  lazy  or  it  suits  his  conven- 
ience in  other  ways.  The  city  is  merely  the  aggre- 
gate of  citizens  in  a corporation,  and  must  be 
subject  to  the  same  rules.  I drew  up  a complaint 
in  proper  official  phrase,  charging  that  the  state  of 
Mulberry  Bend  was  “detrimental  to  health  and 
dangerous  to  life,”  and  formally  arraigned  the  muni- 
cipality before  the  Health  Board  for  maintaining  a 
nuisance  upon  its  premises. 

I have  still  a copy  of  that  complaint,  and,  as  the 
parting  shot  to  the  worst  slum  that  ever  was,  and, 
let  us  hope,  ever  will  be,  I quote  it  here  in  part:  — 

“ The  Bend  is  a mass  of  wreck,  a dumping-ground 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


281 


for  all  manner  of  filth  from  the  surrounding  tene- 
ments. The  Street-cleaning  Department  has  no 
jurisdiction  over  it,  and  the  Park  Department,  in 
charge  of  which  it  is,  exercises  none. 

“ The  numerous  old  cellars  are  a source  of  danger 
to  the  children  that  swarm  over  the  block.  Water 
stagnating  in  the  holes  will  shortly  add  the  peril  of 
epidemic  disease.  Such  a condition  as  that  now 
prevailing  in  this  block,  with  its  dense  surrounding 
population,  would  not  be  tolerated  by  your  depart- 
ment for  a single  day  if  on  private  property.  It 
has  lasted  here  many  months. 

“ The  property  is  owned  by  the  city,  having  been 
taken  for  the  purposes  of  a park  and  left  in  this 
condition  after  the  demolition  of  the  old  buildings. 
The  undersigned  respectfully  represents  that  the 
city,  in  the  proposed  Mulberry  Bend  park,  is  at 
present  maintaining  a nuisance,  and  that  it  is  the 
duty  of  your  honorable  Board  to  see  to  it  that  it  is 
forthwith  abolished,  to  which  end  he  prays  that  you 
will  proceed  at  once  with  the  enforcement  of  the 
rules  of  your  department  prohibiting  the  maintain- 
ing of  nuisances  within  the  city’s  limits.” 

If  my  complaint  caused  a smile  in  official  quar- 
ters, it  was  short-lived,  except  in  the  Sanitary 
Bureau,  where  I fancy  it  lurked.  For  the  Bend 
was  under  its  windows.  One  whiff  of  it  was 
enough  to  determine  the  kind  of  report  the  health 


282 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


inspectors  would  have  to  make  when  forced  to  act. 
That  night,  before  they  got  around,  some  boys 
playing  with  a truck  in  the  lots  ran  it  down  into 
one  of  the  cellar  holes  spoken  of  and  were  crushed 
under  it,  and  so  put  a point  upon  the  matter  that 
took  the  laughter  out  of  it  for  good.  They  went 
ahead  with  the  park  then. 

When  they  had  laid  the  sod,  and  I came  and 
walked  on  it  in  defiance  of  the  sign  to  “ keep  off 
the  grass,’'  I was  whacked  by  a policeman  for  doing 
it,  as  I told  in  the  “Ten  Years’  War.”^  But  that 
was  all  right.  We  had  the  park.  And  I had  been 
“ moved  on  ” before  when  I sat  and  shivered  in 
seeking  hallways  in  that  very  spot,  alone  and  for- 
lorn in  tne  long  aeo ; so  that  I did  not  mind.  The 
children  who  were  dancing  there  in  the  sunlight 
were  to  have  a better  time,  please  God!  We  had 
given  them  their  lost  chance.  Looking  at  them 
in  their  delight  now,  it  is  not  hard  to  understand 
what  happened:  the  place  that  had  been  redolent 
of  crime  and  murder  became  the  most  orderly  in 
the  city.  When  the  last  house  was  torn  down  in 
the  Bend,  I counted  seventeen  murders  in  the 
block  all  the  details  of  which  I remembered.  No 
doubt  I had  forgotten  several  times  that  number. 
In  the  four  years  after  that  during  which  I re- 
mained in  Mulberry  Street  I was  called  only  once 
to  record  a deed  of  violence  in  the  neighborhood, 

1 Now,  “The  Battle  with  the  Slum.” 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  283 

and  that  was  when  a stranger  came  in  and  killed 
himself.  Nor  had  the  Bend  simply  sloughed  off 
its  wickedness,  for  it  to  lodge  and  take  root  in  some 
other  place.  That  would  have  been  something; 
but  it  was  not  that.  The  Bend  had  become  decent 
and  orderly  because  the  sunlight  was  let  in,  and 


The  Mulberry  Bend  as  it  is. 

shone  upon  children  who  had  at  last  the  right  to 
play,  even  if  the  sign  “ keep  off  tlie  grass  ” was  still 
there.  That  was  what  the  Mulberry  Bend  park 
meant.  It  was  the  story  it  had  to  tell.  And  as 
for  the  sign,  we  shall  see  the  last  of  that  yet. 
The  park  has  notice  served  upon  it  that  its  time 
is  up. 


284  the  making  of  an  AMERICAN 

So  the  Bend  went,  and  mighty  glad  am  I that  I 
had  a hand  in  making  it  go.  The  newspapers  puz- 
zled over  the  fact  that  I was  not  invited  to  the 
formal  opening.  I was  Secretary  of  the  Small 
Parks  Committee  at  the  time,  and  presumably  even 
officially  entitled  to  be  bidden  to  the  show;  though, 
come  to  think  of  it,  our  committee  was  a citizens’ 
affair  and  not  on  the  pay-rolls!  The  Tammany 
Mayor  who  came  in  the  year  after  said  that  we  had 
as  much  authority  as  “ a committee  of  bootblacks  ” 
about  the  City  Hall,  no  more.  So  that  it  seems  as 
if  there  is  a something  that  governs  those  things 
which  survives  the  accidents  of  politics,  and  which 
mere  citizens  are  not  supposed  to  understand  or 
meddle  with.  Anyway,  it  was  best  so.  Colonel 
Waring,  splendid  fellow  that  he  was,  when  he  grew 
tired  of  the  much  talk,  made  a little  speech  of  ten 
words  that  was  not  on  the  programme,  and  after 
that  the  politicians  went  home,  leaving  the  park  to 
the  children.  There  it  was  in  the  right  hands. 
What  mattered  the  rest,  then  ? 

And  now  let  me  go  back  from  the  slum  to  my 
Brooklyn  home  for  just  a look.  I did  every  night,  • 
or  I do  not  think  I could  have  stood  it.  I never 
lived  in  New  York  since  I had  a home,  except  for 
the  briefest  spell  of  a couple  of  months  once  when 
my  family  were  away,  and  that  nearly  stifled  me. 

I have  to  be  where  there  are  trees  and  birds  and 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  285 

green  hills,  and  where  the  sky  is  blue  above.  So 
we  built  our  nest  in  Brooklyn,  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  great  park,  while  the  fledglings  grew,  and  the 
nest  was  full  when  the  last  of  our  little  pile  had 
gone  to  make  it  snug.  Rent  was  getting  higher 
all  the  time,  and  the  deeper  I burrowed  in  the 
slum,  the  more  my  thoughts  turned,  by  a sort 
of  defensive  instinct,  to  the  country.  My  wife 
laughed,  and  said  I should  have  thought  of  that 
while  we  yet  had  some  money  to  buy  or  build 
with,  but  I borrowed  no  trouble  on  that  score.  I 
was  never  a good  business  man,  as  I have  said  be- 
fore, and  yet  — no  I I will  take  that  back.  It  is 
going  back  on  the  record.  I trusted  my  accounts 
with  the  Great  Paymaster,  who  has  all  the  money 
there  is,  and  he  never  gave  notice  that  I had  over- 
drawn my  account.  I had  the  feeling,  and  have  it 
still,  that  if  you  are  trying  to  do  the  things  which 
are  right,  and  which  you  were  put  here  to  do,  you 
can  and  ought  to  leave  ways  and  means  to  Him 
who  drew  the  plans,  after  you  have  done  your  own 
level  best  to  provide.  Always  that,  of  course.  If 
then  things  don’t  come  out  right,  it  is  the  best 
proof  in  the  world,  to  my  mind,  that  you  have 
got  it  wrong,  and  you  have  only  to  hammer  away 
waiting  for  things  to  shape  themselves,  as  they  are 
bound  to  do,  and  let  in  the  light.  For  nothing  in 
all  this  world  is  without  a purpose,  and  least  of  all 


286 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


what  you  and  I are  doing,  though  we  may  not  be 
able  to  make  it  out.  I got  that  faith  from  my 
mother,  and  it  never  put  her  to  shame,  so  she  has 
often  told  me. 

Neither  did  it  me.  It  was  in  the  winter  when 
all  our  children  had  the  scarlet  fever  that  one  Sun- 
day, when  I was  taking  a long  walk  out  on  Long 
Island  where  I could  do  no  one  any  harm,  I came 
upon  Richmond  Hill,  and  thought  it  was  the  most 
beautiful  spot  I had  ever  seen.  I went  home  ana 
told  my  wife  that  I had  found  the  place  where  we 
were  going  to  live,  and  that  sick-room  was  filled 
with  the  scent  of  spring  flowers  and  of  balsam  and 
pine  as  the  children  listened  and  cheered  with  their 
feeble  little  voices.  The  very  next  week  I picked 
out  the  lots  I wanted.  There  was  a tangle  of  trees 
growing  on  them  that  are  shading  my  study  win- 
dow now  as  I write.  I did  not  have  any  money, 
but  right  then  an  insurance  company  was  in  need 
of  some  one  to  revise  its  Danish  policies,  and  my 
old  friend  General  C.  T.  Christensen  thought  I 
would  do.  And  I did  it,  and  earned  $200 ; where- 
upon Edward  Wells,  who  was  then  a prosperous 
druggist,  offered  to  lend  me  what  more  I needed 
to  buy  the  lots,  and  the  manager  of  our  Press 
Bureau  built  me  a house  and  took  a mortgage  for 
all  it  cost.  So  before  the  next  winter’s  snows  we 
were  snug  in  the  house  that  has  been  ours  ever 


My  Little  Ones  gathering  Daisies  for  “the  Poors.” 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


287 


since,  with  a ridge  of  wooded  hills,  the  “backbone 
of  Long  Island,”  between  New  York  and  us.  The 
very  lights  of  the  city  were  shut  out.  So  was  the 
slum,  and  I could  sleep. 

Fifteen  summers  have  passed  since.  The  house 
lies  yonder,  white  and  peaceful  under  the  trees. 
Long  since,  the  last  dollar  of  the  mortgage  was 
paid  and  our  home  freed  from  debt.^  The  flag  flies 
from  it  on  Sundays  in  token  thereof.  Joy  and  sor- 
row have  come  to  us  under  its  roof.  Children  have 
been  born,  and  one  we  carried  over  the  hill  to  the 
churchyard  with  tears  for  the  baby  we  had  lost. 
But  He  to  whom  we  gave  it  back  has  turned  our 
grief  to  joy.  Of  all  our  babies,  the  one  we  lost  is 
the  only  one  we  have  kept.  The  others  grew  out 
of  our  arms ; I hardly  remember  them  in  their  little 
white  slips.  But  he  is  our  baby  forever.  Fifteen 
happy  years  of  peace  have  they  been,  for  love  held 
the  course. 

It  was  when  the  daisies  bloomed  in  the  spring 
that  the  children  brought  in  armfuls  from  the  flelds, 
and  bade  me  take  them  to  “ the  poors  ” in  the  city, 
I did  as  they  bade  me,  but  I never  got  more  than 
half  a block  from  the  ferry  with  my  burden.  The 
street  children  went  wild  over  the  “posies.”  They 

1 I have  had  my  study  built  on  the  back  lawn  so  that  I may  always 
have  it  before  me,  and  have  a quiet  place  at  the  same  time,  where 
“papa  is  not  to  be  disturbed.”  But,  though  I put  it  as  far  back  as  I 
could,  I notice  that  they  come  right  in. 


288 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


pleaded  and  fought  to  get  near  me,  and  when  I had 
no  flowers  left  to  give  them  sat  in  the  gutter  and 
wept  with  grief.  The  sight  of  it  went  to  my  heart, 
and  I wrote  this  letter  to  the  papers.  It  is  dated  in 
my  scrap-book  June  23,  1888:  — 

“ The  trains  that  carry  a hundred  thousand  peo- 
ple to  New  York’s  stores  and  offices  from  their 
homes  in  the  country  rush  over  fields,  these  bright 
June  mornings,  glorious  with  daisies  and  clover 
blossoms.  There  are  too  many  sad  little  eyes  in 
the  crowded  tenements,  where  the  summer  sunshine 
means  disease  and  death,  not  play  or  vacation,  that 
will  close  without  ever  having  looked  upon  a field 
of  daisies. 

“ If  we  cannot  give  them  the  fields,  why  not  the 
flowers  ? If  every  man,  woman,  or  child  coming  in 
should,  on  the  way  to  the  depot,  gather  an  armful  of 
wild  flowers  to  distribute  in  the  tenements,  a mission 
work  would  be  set  on  foot  with  which  all  the  alms- 
giving of  this  wealthy  city  could  not  be  compared. 

“ Then  why  not  do  it  ? Ask  your  readers  to  try. 
The  pleasure  of  giving  the  flowers  to  the  urchins 
who  will  dog  their  steps  in  the  street,  crying  with 
hungry  voices  and  hungry  hearts  for  a ‘posy,’  will 
more  than  pay  for  the  trouble.  It  will  brighten  the 
office,  the  store,  or  the  schoolroom  all  through  the 
day.  Let  them  have  no  fear  that  their  gift  will  not 
be  appreciated  because  it  costs  nothing.  Not  alms, 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  289 

but  the  golden  rule,  is  what  is  needed  in  the  tene- 
ments of  the  poor. 

“ If  those  who  have  not  the  time  or  opportunity 
themselves  will  send  their  flowers  to  303  Mulberry 
Street,  opposite  Police  Headquarters,  it  will  be  done 
for  them.  The  summer  doctors  employed  by  the 
Health  Department  to  canvass  the  tenements  in 
July  and  August  will  gladly  cooperate.  Let  us 
have  the  flowers.” 

If  I could  have  foreseen  the  result,  I hardly  think 
that  last  paragraph  would  have  been  printed.  I 
meant  to  give  people  a chance  to  discover  for  them- 
selves how  much  pleasure  they  could  get  out  of  a 
little  thing  like  taking  an  armful  of  flowers  to  town, 
but  they  voted  unanimously,  so  it  seemed,  to  let  me 
have  it  all.  Flowers  came  pouring  in  from  every 
corner  of  the  compass.  They  came  in  boxes,  in  bar- 
rels, and  in  bunches,  from  field  and  garden,  from 
town  and  country.  Express-wagons  carrying  flow- 
ers jammed  Mulberry  Street,  and  the  police  came 
out  to  marvel  at  the  row.  The  office  was  fairly 
smothered  in  fragrance.  A howling  mob  of  children 
besieged  it.  The  reporters  forgot  their  rivalries  and 
lent  a hand  with  enthusiasm  in  giving  out  the  flow- 
ers. The  Superintendent  of  Police  detailed  five 
stout  patrolmen  to  help  carry  the  abundance  to 
points  of  convenient  distribution.  Wherever  we 
went,  fretful  babies  stopped  crying  and  smiled  as 


u 


290  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

the  messengers  of  love  were  laid  against  their 
wan  cheeks.  Slovenly  women  courtesied  and  made 
way. 

“ The  good  Lord  bless  you,”  I heard  as  I passed 
through  a dark  hall,  “ but  you  are  a good  man.  No 
such  has  come  this  way  before.”  Oh  ! the  heartache 
of  it,  and  yet  the  joy  ! The  Italians  in  the  Barracks 
stopped  quarrelling  to  help  keep  order.  The  worst 
street  became  suddenly  good  and  neighborly.  A 
year  or  two  after.  Father  John  Tabb,  priest  and 
poet,  wrote,  upon  reading  my  statement  that  I had 
seen  an  armful  of  daisies  keep  the  peace  of  a block 
better  than  the  policeman’s  club : — 

Peacemakers  ye,  the  daisies,  from  the  soil 
Upbreathing  wordless  messages  of  love, 

Soothing  of  earth-born  brethren  the  toil 
And  lifting  e’en  the  lowliest  above. 

Ay,  they  did.  The  poet  knew  it;  the  children 
knew  it ; the  slum  knew  it.  It  lost  its  grip  where 
the  flowers  went  with  their  message.  I saw  it. 

I saw,  too,  that  I had  put  my  hand  to  a task  that 
was  too  great  for  me,  yet  which  I might  not  give 
over,  once  I had  taken  it  up.  Every  day  the  slum 
showed  me  that  more  clearly.  The  hunger  for  the 
beautiful  that  gnawed  at  its  heart  was  a constant 
revelation.  Those  little  ones  at  home  were  wiser 
than  I.  At  most  I had  made  out  its  stomach.  This 
was  like  cutting  windows  for  souls  that  were  being 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  291 

shrunk  and  dwarfed  in  their  mean  setting.  Shut 
them  up  once  the  sunlight  had  poured  in  — never! 
I could  only  drive  ahead,  then,  until  a way  opened. 
Somewhere  beyond  it  was  sure  to  do  that. 

And  it  did.  Among  the  boxes  from  somewhere 
out  in  Jersey  came  one  with  the  letters  I.  H.  N.  on. 
I paid  little  attention  to  it  then,  but  when  more  came 
so  marked,  I noticed  that  they  were  not  all  from  one 
place,  and  made  inquiries  as  to  what  the  letters 
meant.  So  I was  led  to  the  King’s  Daughters’ 
headquarters,  where  I learned  that  they 
stood  for  “ In  His  Name.”  I liked  the 
sentiment ; I took  to  it  at  once.  And 
I liked  the  silver  cross  upon  which  it 
was  inscribed.  I sometimes  wish  I had 
lived  — no  I I do  not.  That’s  dream- 
ing. I have  lived  in  the  best  of  all  times,  when 
you  do  not  have  to  dream  things  good,  but  can 
help  make  them  so.  All  the  same,  when  I put 
on  the  old  crusader’s  cross  which  King  Christian 
sent  me  a year  ago  from  Denmark,  and  think  of 
the  valiant  knights  who  wore  it,  I feel  glad  and 
proud  that,  however  far  behind,  I may  ride  in  their 
train. 

So  I put  on  the  silver  cross,  and  in  the  Broadway 
Tabernacle  spoke  to  the  members  of  the  order,  asking 
them  to  make  this  work  theirs.  They  did  it  at  once. 
A committee  was  formed,  and  in  the  summer  of 


2Q2 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


1890  it  opened  an  office  in  the  basement  of  the 
Mariners’  Temple,  down  in  the  Fourth  Ward.  The 
Health  Department’s  summer  doctors  were  enlisted, 
and  the  work  took  a practical  turn  from  the  start. 
There  were  fifty  of  the  doctors,  whose  duty  it  was 
to  canvass  the  thirty  thousand  tenements  during  the 
hot  season  and  prescribe  for  the  sick  poor.  They 
had  two  months  to  do  it  in,  and  with  the  utmost 
effort,  if  they  were  to  cover  their  ground,  could  only 
get  around  once  to  each  family.  In  a great  many 
cases  that  was  as  good  as  nothing.  They  might  as 
well  have  stayed  away,  for  what  was  wanted  was  ad- 
vice, instruction,  a friendly  lift  out  of  a hopeless  rut, 
more  than  medicine.  We  hired  a nurse,  and  where 
they  pointed  there  she  went,  following  their  track 
and  bringing  the  things  the  doctor  could  not  give. 
It  worked  well.  At  the  end  of  the  year,  when  we 
would  have  shut  up  shop,  we  found  ourselves  with 
three  hundred  families  on  our  hands,  to  leave  whom 
would  have  been  rank  treachery.  So  we  took  a 
couple  of  rooms  in  a tenement,  and  held  on.  And 
from  this  small  beginning  has  grown  the  King’s 
Daughters’  settlement,  which  to-day  occupies  two 
houses  at  48  and  50  Henry  Street,  doing  exactly  the 
same  kind  of  work  as  when  they  began  in  the  next 
block.  The  flowers  were  and  are  the  open  sesame 
to  every  home.  They  were  laughed  at  by  some  at 
the  start ; but  that  was  because  they  did  not  know. 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


293 


They  are  not  needed  now  to  open  doors ; the  little 
cross  is  known  for  a friend  wherever  it  goes. 

We  sometimes  hear  it  said,  and  it  is  true,  that  the 
poor  are  more  charitable  among  themselves  than 
the  outside  world  is  to  them.  It  is  because  they 
know  the  want ; and  it  only  goes  to  prove  that 
human  nature  is  at  bottom  good,  not  bad.  In  real 
straits  it  comes  out  strongest.  So,  if  you  can  only 
miake  the  others  see,  will  they  do.  The  trouble  is, 
they  do  not  know,  and  some  of  us  seem  to  have 
cotton  in  our  ears : we  are  a little  hard  of  hearing. 
Yet,  whenever  we  put  it  to  the  test,  up-town  rang 
true.  I remember  the  widow  with  three  or  four 
little  ones  who  had  to  be  wheeled  if  she  were  to  be 
able  to  get  about  as  the  doctor  insisted.  There  was 
no  nursery  within  reach.  And  I remember  the  pro- 
cession of  baby-carriages  that  answered  our  appeal. 
It  strung  clear  across  the  street  into  Chatham 
Square.  Whatever  we  needed  we  got.  We  saw 
the  great  heart  of  our  city,  and  it  was  good  to  see. 

Personally  I had  little  to  do  with  it,  except  to 
form  the  link  with  the  official  end  of  it,  the  summer 
doctors,  etc.,  and  to  make  trouble  occasionally.  As, 
for  instance,  when  I surreptitiously  supplied  an  old 
couple  we  had  charge  of  with  plug  tobacco.  The 
ladies  took  it  ill,  but,  then,  they  had  never  smoked. 
I had,  and  I know  what  it  is  to  do  without  tobacco, 
for  the  doctor  cut  my  supply  off  a long  while  ago. 


294 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Those  two  were  old,  very  old,  and  they  wanted 
their  pipe,  and  they  got  it.  I suppose  it  was  irregu- 
lar, but  I might  as  well  say  it  here  that  I would  do 
the  same  thing  again,  without  doubt.  I feel  it  in 
my  bones.  So  little  have  I profited.  But,  good 
land ! a pipe  is  not  a deadly  sin.  For  the  rest,  I 
was  mighty  glad  to  see  things  managed  with  system. 
It  was  a new  experience  to  me.  On  the  Tribune  I 
had  a kind  of  license  to  appeal  now  and  again  for 
some  poor  family  I had  come  across,  and  sometimes 
a good  deal  of  money  came  in.  It  was  hateful  to 
find  that  it  did  not  always  do  the  good  it  ought  to. 
I bring  to  mind  the  aged  bookkeeper  and  his  wife 
whom  I found  in  a Greene  Street  attic  in  a state  of 
horrid  want.  He  had  seen  much  better  days,  and 
it  was  altogether  a very  pitiful  case.  My  appeal 
brought  in  over  $300,  which,  in  my  delight,  I 
brought  him  in  a lump.  The  next  morning,  when 
going  home  at  three  o’clock,  whom  should  I see  in 
a vile  Chatham  Street  dive,  gloriously  drunk,  and 
in  the  clutches  of  a gang  of  Sixth  Ward  cutthroats, 
but  my  protege,  the  bookkeeper,  squandering  money 
right  and  left.  I caught  sight  of  him  through  the 
open  door,  and  in  hot  indignation  went  in  and 
yanked  him  out,  giving  him  a good  talking  to. 
The  gang  followed,  and  began  hostilities  at  once. 
But  for  the  providential  coming  of  two  policemen, 
we  should  probably  have  both  fared  ill.  I had  the 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


295 


old  man  locked  up  in  the  Oak  Street  Station.  For 
a wonder,  he  had  most  of  the  money  yet,  and  there- 
after I spent  it  for  him. 

On  another  occasion  we  were  deliberately  victim- 
ized— the  reporters  in  Mulberry  Street,  I mean  — 
by  a m.an  with  a pitiful  story  of  hardship,  which  we 
took  as  truth  and  printed.  When  I got  around 
there  the  next  morning  to  see  about  it,  I found  that 
some  neighborhood  roughs  had  established  a toll- 
gate  in  the  alley,  charging  the  pitying  visitors  who 
came  in  shoals  a quarter  for  admission  to  the  show 
in  the  garret.  The  man  was  a fraud.  That  was 
right  around  the  corner  from  a place  where,  years 
before,  I used  to  drop  a nickel  in  a beggar  woman’s 
hand  night  after  night  as  I went  past,  because  she 
had  a baby  cradled  on  her  wheezy  little  hand-organ, 
until  one  night  the  baby  rolled  into  the  gutter,  and 
I saw  that  it  was  a rag  baby,  and  that  the  woman 
was  drunk.  It  was  on  such  evidence  as  this,  both 
as  to  them  and  myself,  that  I early  pinned  my  faith 
to  organized  charity  as  just  orderly  charity,  and  I 
have  found  good  reasons  since  to  confirm  me  in  the 
choice.  If  any  doubt  had  lingered  in  my  mind,  my 
experience  in  helping  distribute  the  relief  fund  to 
the  tornado  sufferers  at  Woodhaven  a dozen  years 
ago  would  have  dispelled  it.  It  does  seem  as  if  the 
chance  of  getting  soinethmg  for  nothing  is,  on  the 
whole,  the  greatest  teiTptation  one  can  hold  out  to 


296  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

frail  human  nature,  whether  in  the  slum,  in  Wall 
Street,  or  out  where  the  daisies  grow. 

Everything  takes  money.  Our  work  takes  a good 
deal.  It  happened  more  than  once,  when  the  bills 
came  in,  that  there  was  nothing  to  pay  them  with. 
Now  these  were  times  to  put  to  the  test  my  faith,  as 
recorded  above.  My  associates  in  the  Board  will 
bear  me  out  that  it  was  justified.  It  is  true  that  the 
strain  was  heavy  once  or  twice.  I recall  one  after- 
noon, as  do  they,  when  we  sat  with  bills  amounting 
to  $150  before  us  and  not  a cent  in  the  bank,  so  the 
treasurer  reported.  Even  as  she  did,  the  mail-carrier 
brought  two  letters,  both  from  the  same  town,  as  it 
happened  — Morristown,  N. J.  Each  of  them  con- 

tained a check  for  $75,  one  from  a happy  mother 
“in  gratitude  and  joy,”  the  other  from  “ one  stricken 
by  a great  sorrow  ” that  had  darkened  her  life.  To- 
gether they  made  the  sum  needed.  We  sat  and 
looked  at  each  other  dumbly.  To  me  it  was  not 
strange : that  was  my  mother’s  faith.  But  I do  not 
think  we,  any  of  us,  doubted  after  that ; and  we  had 
what  we  needed,  as  we  needed  it. 


CHAPTER  XII 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR  AND  RESUME  MY  INTERRUPTED 
CAREER  AS  A LECTURER 

For  more  than  a year  I had  knocked  at  the  doors 
of  the  various  magazine  editors  with  my  pictures,  pro- 
posing to  tell  them  how  the  other  half  lived,  but  no 
one  wanted  to  know.  One  of  the  Harpers,  indeed, 
took  to  the  idea,  but  the  editor  to  whom  he  sent  me 
treated  me  very  cavalierly.  Hearing  that  I had 
taken  the  pictures  myself,  he  proposed  to  buy  them 
at  regular  photographer’s  rates  and  “ find  a man 
who  could  write”  to  tell  the  story.  We  did  not 
part  with  mutual  expressions  of  esteem.  I gave  up 
writing  for  a time  then,  and  tried  the  church  doors. 
That  which  was  bottled  up  within  me  was,  perhaps, 
getting  a trifle  too  hot  for  pen  and  ink.  In  the 
church  one  might,  at  all  events,  tell  the  truth  un- 
hindered. So  I thought ; but  there  were  cautious 
souls  there,  too,  who  held  the  doors  against  Mul- 
berry Street  and  the  police  reporter.  It  was  fair, 
of  course,  that  they  should  know  who  I was,  but  I 
thought  it  sufficient  introduction  that  I was  a 
deacon  in  my  own  church  out  on  Long  Island. 

297 


298  ' THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

They  did  not,  it  seemed.  My  stock  of  patience, 
never  very  large,  was  showing  signs  of  giving  out, 
and  I retorted  hotly  that  then,  if  they  wanted  to 
know,  I was  a reporter,  and  perhaps  Mulberry  Street 
had  as  much  sanctity  in  it  as  a church  that  would 
not  listen  to  its  wrongs.  They  only  shut  the  doors 
a little  tighter  at  that.  It  did  not  mend  matters 
that  about  that  time  I tried  a little  truth-telling  in 
my  own  fold  and  came  to  grief.  It  did  not  prove 
to  be  any  more  popular  on  Long  Island  than  in 
New  York.  I resigned  the  diaconate  and  was 
thinking  of  hiring  a hall  — a theatre  could  be  had 
on  Sunday  — wherein  to  preach  my  lay  sermon, 
when  I came  across  Dr.  Schauffler,  the  manager 
of  the  City  Mission  Society,  and  Dr.  Josiah  Strong, 
the  author  of  “ Our  Country.”  They  happened  to 
be  together,  and  saw  at  once  the  bearing  of  my 
pictures.  Remembering  my  early  experience  with 
the  magic  lantern,  I had  had  slides  made  from  my 
negatives,  and  on  February  28,  1888,  I told  their 
story  in  the  Broadway  Tabernacle.  Thereafter 
things  mended  somewhat.  Plymouth  Church  and 
Dr.  Parkhurst  s opened  their  doors  to  me  and  the 
others  fell  slowly  into  line. 

I had  my  say  and  felt  better.  I found  a note  from 
Dr.  Schauffler  among  my  papers  the  other  day  that 
was  written  on  the  morning  after  that  first  speech. 
He  was  pleased  with  it  and  with  the  collection  of 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


299 


$143.50  for  the  mission  cause.  I remember  it  made 
me  smile  a little  grimly.  The  fifty  cents  would  have 
come  handy  for  lunch  that  day.  It  just  happened 
that  I did  not  have  any.  It  happened  quite  often. 
I was,  as  I said,  ever  a bad  manager.  I mention  it 
here  because  of  two  letters  that  came  while  I have 
been  writing  this,  and  which  I may  as  well  answer 
now.  One  asks  me  to  lift  the  mortgage  from  the 
writer’s  home.  I get  a good  many  of  that  kind. 
The  writers  seem  to  think  I have  much  money  and 
might  want  to  help  them.  I should  like  nothing 
better.  To  go  around,  if  one  were  rich,  and  pay 
off  mortgages  on  little  homes,  so  that  the  owners 
when  they  had  got  the  interest  together  by  pinch- 
ing and  scraping  should  find  it  all  gone  and  paid 
up  without  knowing  how,  seems  to  me  must  be  the 
very  finest  fun  in  all  the  world.  But  I shall  never 
be  able  to  do  it,  for  I haven’t  any  other  money  than 
what  I earn  with  my  pen  and  by  lecturing,  and 
never  had.  So  their  appeals  only  make  me  poorer 
by  a two-cent  stamp  for  an  answer  to  tell  them  that, 
and  make  them  no  richer.  The  other  letter  asks 
why  I and  other  young  men  who  have  had  to  battle 
with  the  world  did  not  go  to  the  Young  Men’s 
Christian  Association,  or  to  the  missionaries,  for 
help.  I do  not  know  about  the  others,  but  I did 
not  want  anybody  to  help  me.  There  were  plenty 
that  were  worse  off  and  needed  help  more.  The 


300 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


only  time  I tried  was  when  Pater  Breton,  the  good 
French  priest  in  Buffalo,  tried  to  get  me  across  to 
France  to  fight  for  his  country,  and  happily  did  not 
succeed.  As  to  battling  with  the  world,  that  is  good 
for  a young  man,  much  better  than  to  hang  on  to 
somebody  for  support.  A little  starvation  once  in 
a while  even  is  not  out  of  the  way.  We  eat  too 
much  anyhow,  and  when  you  have  fought  your  way 
through  a tight  place,  you  are  the  better  for  it.  I 
am  afraid  that  is  not  always  the  case  when  you  have 
been  shoved  through. 

And  then  again,  as  I have  just  told,  when  I did 
go  to  the  ministers  with  a fair  proposition,  they  did 
not  exactly  jump  at  it.  No,  it  was  better  the  way 
it  was. 

The  thing  I had  sought  vainly  so  long  came  in 
the  end  by  another  road  than  I planned.  One  of 
the  editors  of  Scribner  s Magazine  saw  my  pictures 
and  heard  their  story  in  his  church,  and  came  to 
talk  the  matter  over  with  me.  As  a result  of  that 
talk  I wrote  an  article  that  appeared  in  the  Christ- 
mas Scribners,  1889,  under  the  title  “ How  the 
Other  Half  Lives,”  and  made  an  instant  impres- 
sion. That  was  the  beginning  of  better  days. 

Before  I let  the  old  depart  I must  set  down  an 
incident  of  my  reporter’s  experience  that  crowds  in 
with  a good  hearty  laugh,  though  it  was  not  the 
slum  that  sent  me  to  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Com- 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


301 


munion  over  on  Sixth  Avenue.  And  though  the 
door  was  shut  in  my  face,  it  was  not  by  the  rector, 
or  with  malice  prepense.  A despatch  from  the 
Tenderloin  police  station  had  it  that  the  wife  of 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Henry  Mottet  was  locked  up  there, 
out  of  her  mind.  We  had  no  means  of  knowing 
that  Dr.  Mottet  was  at  that  time  a confirmed  bach- 
elor. So  I went  over  to  condole  with  him,  and 
incidentally  to  ask  what  was  the  matter  with  his 
wife,  any  way.  The  servant  who  came  to  the  door 
did  not  know  whether  the  doctor  was  in  ; she  would 
go  and  see.  But  even  as  she  said  it  the  wind  blew 
the  door  shut  behind  her.  It  had  a snap-lock. 

“Oh!”  she  said,  “I  am  shut  out.  If  the  doctor 
isn’t  in  the  house,  I can’t  get  in.” 

We  rang,  but  no  one  came.  There  was  only  one 
way:  to  try  the  windows.  The  poor  girl  could  not 
be  left  in  the  street.  So  we  went  around  the  rectory 
and  found  one  unlatched.  She  gave  me  a leg  up, 
and  I raised  the  sash  and  crawled  in. 

Halfway  in  the  room,  with  one  leg  over  the  sill, 
I became  dimly  conscious  of  a shape  there.  Tall 
and  expectant,  it  stood  between  the  door-curtains. 
“Well,  sir!  and  who  are  you  ” it  spoke  sternly. 
I climbed  over  the  sill  and  put  the  question  my- 
self : “ And  who  are  you,  sir  ? ” 

“ I am  Dr.  Mottet,  and  live  in  this  house.”  He 
had  been  in  after  all  and  had  come  down  to  hear 


302 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


what  the  ringing  was  about.  “ And  now  may  I ask, 
sir  — 

“ Certainly,  you  may.  I am  a reporter  from  Police 
Headquarters,  come  up  to  tell  you  that  your  wife 
is  locked  up  in  the  Thirtieth  Street  police  station.” 

The  doctor  looked  fixedly  at  me  for  a full  minute. 
Then  he  slowly  telescoped  his  tall  frame  into  an 
armchair,  and  sank  down,  a look  of  comic  despair 
settling  upon  his  face. 

“ O Lord  ! ” he  sighed  heavily.  “ A strange  man 
climbs  through  my  parlor  window  to  tell  me,  a 
bachelor,  that  my  wife  is  locked  up  in  the  police 
station.  What  will  happen  next  ? ” 

And  then  we  laughed  together  and  made  friends. 
The  woman  was  just  an  ordinary  lunatic. 

I was  late  home  from  the  office  one  evening  the 
week  my  Christmas  article  was  printed.  My  wife 
was  waiting  for  me  at  the  door,  looking  down  the 
street.  I saw  that  she  had  something  on  her  mind, 
but  the  children  were  all  right,  she  said;  nothing 
was  amiss.  Supper  over,  she  drew  a chair  to  the 
fire  and  brought  out  a letter. 

“ I read  it,”  she  nodded.  It  was  our  way.  The 
commonest  business  letter  is  to  me  a human  docu- 
ment when  she  has  read  it.  Besides,  she  knows  so 
much  more  than  I.  Her  heart  can  find  a way  where 
my  head  bucks  blindly  against  stone  walls. 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


303 


The  letter  was  from  Jeanette  Gilder,  of  the 
Critic,  asking  if  I had  thought  of  making  my 
article  into  a book.  If  so,  she  knew  a publisher. 
My  chance  had  come.  I was  at  last  to  have  my  say. 

I should  have  thought  I would  have  shouted  and 
carried  on.  I didn’t.  We  sat  looking  into  the  fire 
together,  she  and  I.  Neither  of  us  spoke.  Then 
we  went  up  to  the  children.  They  slept  sweetly  in 
their  cribs.  I saw  a tear  in  her  eye  as  she  bent 
over  the  baby’s  cradle,  and  caught  her  to  me, 
questioning. 

“ Shall  we  lose  you  now  ? ” she  whispered,  and 
hid  her  head  on  my  shoulder.  I do  not  know  what 
jealous  thought  of  authors  being  wedded  to  their 
work  had  come  into  her  mind ; or,  rather,  I do.  I 
felt  it,  and  in  my  heart,  while  I held  her  close,  I 
registered  a vow  which  I have  kept.  It  was  the 
last  tear  she  shed  for  me.  Our  daughter  pouts  at 
her  father  now  and  then  ; says  I am  “ fierce.”  But 
She  comes  with  her  sewing  to  sit  where  I write,  and 
when  she  comes  the  sun  shines. 

Necessarily,  for  a while,  my  new  work  held  me 
very  close.  “How  the  Other  Half  Lives”  was 
written  at  night  while  the  house  slept,  for  I had  my 
office  work  to  attend  to  in  the  day.  Then  it  was 
my  habit  to  light  the  lamps  in  all  the  rooms  of  the 
lower  story  and  roam  through  them  with  my  pipe, 
for  I do  most  of  my  writing  on  my  feet.  I began 


304 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  book  with  the  new  year.  In  November  it  was 
published,  and  on  the  day  it  came  out  I joined  the 
staff  of  the  Evenmg  Sun.  I merely  moved  up  one 
flight  of  stairs.  Mulberry  Street  was  not  done  with 
me  yet,  nor  I with  it. 

I had  had  a falling  out  with  the  manager  of  the 
Associated  Press  Bureau,  — the  Tribune  had  retired 
from  the  copartnership  some  years  before,  — and 
during  one  brief  summer  ran  an  opposition  shop 
of  my  own.  I sold  police  news  to  all  the  papers, 
and  they  fell  away  from  the  Bureau  with  such 
hearty  unanimity  that  the  manager  came  around 
and  offered  to  farm  out  the  department  to  me 
entirely  if  I would  join  forces.  But  independence 
was  ever  sweet  to  me,  and  in  this  instance  it  proved 
profitable  even.  I made  at  least  three  times  as 
much  money  as  before,  but  I did  it  at  such  cost 
of  energy  and  effort  that  I soon  found  it  could  not 
last,  even  with  the  phenomenal  streak  of  good  luck 
I had  struck.  It  seemed  as  if  I had  only  to  reach 
out  to  turn  up  news.  I hear  people  saying  once 
in  a while  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  luck. 
They  are  wrong.  There  is ; I know  it.  It  runs 
in  streaks,  like  accidents  and  fires.  The  thing  is  to 
get  in  the  way  of  it  and  keep  there  till  it  comes 
along,  then  hitch  on,  and  away  you  go.  It  is  the 
old  story  of  the  early  bird.  I got  up  at  five  o’clock, 
three  hours  before  any  of  my  competitors,  and  some^ 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


305 


times  they  came  down  to  the  office  to  find  my  news 
hawked  about  the  street  in  extras  of  their  own  papers. 

One  way  or  another,  a fight  there  was  always  on 
hand.  That  seemed  foreordained.  If  it  was  not 
“ the  opposition  ” it  was  the  police.  When  Mul- 
berry Street  took  a rest  the  publisher’s  “ reader  ” 
began  it,  and  the  proof-reader.  This  last  is  an 
enemy  of  human  kind  anyhow.  Not  only  that  he 
makes  you  say  things  you  never  dreamed  of,  but 
his  being  so  cocksure  that  he  knows  better  every 
time,  is  a direct  challenge  to  a fight.  The  “reader” 
is  tarred  with  the  same  stick.  He  is  the  one  who 
passes  on  the  manuscript,  and  he  has  an  ingrown 
hatred  of  opinion.  If  a man  has  that,  he  is  his 
enemy  before  he  ever  sets  eye  on  him.  He  passed 
on  my  manuscript  with  a blue  pencil  that  laid  waste 
whole  pages,  once  a whole  chapter,  with  a stroke. 
It  was  like  sacking  a conquered  city.  But  he  did 
not  die  in  his  sins.  I joined  battle  at  the  first  sight 
of  that  blue  pencil.  The  publishers  said  their  reader 
was  a very  capable  man.  So  he  was,  and  a fine  fel- 
low to  boot ; had  forgotten  more  than  I ever  knew, 
except  as  to  the  other  half,  of  which  he  did  not 
know  anything.  I suggested  to  the  firm  that  if 
they  did  not  think  so,  they  had  better  let  him  write 
a book  to  suit,  or  else  print  mine  as  I wrote  it.  It 
was  fair,  and  they  took  my  view  of  it.  So  did  he. 
The  blue  pencil  went  out  of  commission. 


306  the  making  of  an  AMERICAN 

How  deadly  tired  I was  in  those  days  I do  not 
think  I myself  knew  until  I went  to  Boston  one 
evening  to  help  discuss  sweating  at  the  Institute 
of  Technology.  I had  an  hour  to  spare,  and 
went  around  into  Beacon  Street  to  call  upon  a 
friend.  I walked  mechanically  up  the  stoop  and 
rang  the  bell.  My  friend  was  not  in,  said  the  ser- 
vant who  came  to  the  door.  Who  should  she  say 
called  ? I stood  and  looked  at  her  like  a fool : I 
had  forgotten  my  name.  I was  not  asleep ; I was 
rummaging  in  an  agony  of  dread  and  excitement 
through  every  corner  and  crevice  of  my  brain  for 
my  own  name,  but  I did  not  find  it.  As  slowly  as 
I could,  to  gain  time,  I reached  for  my  card-case 
and  fumbled  for  a card,  hoping  to  remember.  But 
no  ray  came.  Until  I actually  read  my  name  on 
my  card  it  was  as  utterly  gone  as  if  I had  never 
heard  it.  If  the  people  of  Boston  got  anything  out 
of  my  speech  that  day  they  did  better  than  I.  All 
the  time  I spoke  something  kept  saying  over  within 
me : “You  are  a nice  fellow  to  make  a speech  at  the 
Institute  of  Technology;  you  don’t  even  know  your 
own  name.” 

After  that  I was  haunted  by  a feeling  that  I would 
lose  myself  altogether,  and  got  into  the  habit  of 
leaving  private  directions  in  the  office  where  I 
would  probably  be  found,  should  question  arise.  It 
arose  at  last  in  a Brooklyn  church  where  I was 


i BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


307 


making  a speech  with  my  magic-lantern  pictures. 
While  I spoke  a feeling  kept  growing  upon  me  that 
I ought  to  be  down  in  the  audience  looking  at  the 
pictures.  It  all  seemed  a long  way  off  and  in  no 
way  related  to  me.  Before  I knew  it,  or  any  one  had 
time  to  notice,  I had  gone  down  and  taken  a front 
seat.  I sat  there  for  as  much  as  five  minutes  per- 
haps, while  the  man  with  the  lantern  fidgeted  and 
the  audience  wondered,  I suppose,  what  was  coming 
next.  Then  it  was  the  pictures  that  did  not  change 
which  fretted  me ; with  a cold  chill  I knew  I had 
been  lost,  and  went  back  and  finished  the  speech. 
No  one  was  any  the  wiser,  apparently.  But  I was 
glad  when,  the  following  week,  I wrote  the  last  page 
in  my  book.  That  night,  my  wife  insists,  I deliber- 
ately turned  a somerset  on  the  parlor  carpet  while 
the  big  children  cheered  and  the  baby  looked  on, 
wide-eyed,  from  her  high  chair. 

I preserve  among  my  cherished  treasures  two  let- 
ters of  that  period  from  James  Russell  Lowell.  In 
one  of  them  he  gives  me  permission  to  use  the 
verses  with  which  I prefaced  the  book.  They  were 
the  text  from  which  I preached  my  sermon.  He 
writes  that  he  is  “ glad  they  have  so  much  life  left  in 
them  after  forty  years.”  But  those  verses  will  never 
die.  They  tell  in  a few  lines  all  I tried  to  tell  on 
three  hundred  pages.  The  other  letter  was  written 
when  he  had  read  the  book.  I reproduce  it  here. 


3o8 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


ELMWOOD, 
CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 


/^fo. 


A 


^f2T^ 


.^^yVWV  ^ 

^rtJ  /^-'•cj^  ^ ^ 

' y ' ^ /t^ 

x4^  A*^2^  ^ ^ A 

^04/  Ai  Ayy  ^ 


y. 


Mr.  Lowell’s  Letter. 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


309 


For  myself  I have  never  been  able  to  satisfactorily 
explain  the  great  run  “ How  the  Other  Half  Lives  ” 
had.  It  is  a curiously  popular  book  even  to-day. 
Perhaps  it  was  that  I had  had  it  in  me  so  long  that 
it  burst  out  at  last  with  a rush  that  caught  on.  The 
title  had  a deal  to  do  with  it.  Mr.  Howells  asked 
me  once  where  I got  it.  I did  not  get  it.  It  came 
of  itself.  Like  Topsy,  it  growed.  It  had  run  in 
my  mind  ever  since  I thought  of  the  things  I tried 
to  describe.  Then  there  was  the  piece  of  real  good 
luck  that  Booth’s  “ In  Darkest  England  ” was  pub- 
lished just  then.  People  naturally  asked,  “how 
about  New  York?”  That  winter  Ward  McAllister 
wrote  his  book  about  society  as  he  had  found  it,  and 
the  circuit  was  made.  Ministers  preached  about  the 
contrast.  “ How  the  Other  Half  Lives  ” ran  from 
edition  to  edition.  There  was  speedily  a demand 
for  more  “ copy,”  and  I wrote  “ The  Children  of  the 
Poor,”  following  the  same  track.  Critics  said  there 
were  more  “ bones  ” in  it,  but  it  was  never  popular 
like  the  “Other  Half.” 

By  “ bones  ” I suppose  they  meant  facts  to  tie  to. 
They  were  scarce  enough  at  that  stage  of  the  in- 
quiry. I have  in  my  desk  a table  giving  the  ages 
at  which  children  get  their  teeth  that  bears  witness 
to  that.  I had  been  struggling  with  the  problem  of 
child-labor  in  some  East  Side  factories,  and  was  not 
making  any  headway.  The  children  had  certifi- 


310 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


cates,  one  and  all,  declaring  them  to  be  “ fourteen,” 
and  therefore  fit  to  be  employed.  It  was  perfectly 
evident  that  they  were  not  ten  in  scores  of  cases, 
but  the  employer  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
pointed  to  the  certificate.  The  father,  usually  a 
tailor,  would  not  listen  at  all,  but  went  right  on 
ironing.  There  was  no  birth  registry  to  fall  back 
on ; that  end  of  it  was  neglected.  There  seemed 
to  be  no  way  of  proving  the  fact,  yet  the  fact  was 
there  and  must  be  proven.  My  own  children  were 
teething  at  the  time,  and  it  gave  me  an  idea.  I got 
Dr.  Tracy  to  write  out  that  table  for  me,  showing 
at  what  age  the  dog-teeth  should  appear,  when  the 
molars,  etc.  Armed  with  that  I went  into  the  fac- 
tories and  pried  open  the  little  workers’  mouths. 
The  girls  objected : their  teeth  were  quite  generally 
bad ; but  I saw  enough  to  enable  me  to  speak  posi- 
tively. Even  allowing  for  the  backwardness  of  the 
slum,  it  was  clear  that  a child  that  had  not  yet 
grown  its  dog-teeth  was  not  “fourteen,”  for  they 
should  have  been  cut  at  twelve  at  the  latest.  Three 
years  later  the  Reinhardt  Committee  reported  to  the 
Legislature  that  the  net  result  of  the  Factory  Law 
was  a mass  of  perjury  and  child-labor,  and  day 
began  to  dawn  for  the  little  ones,  too. 

Rough  ways  and  rough  work?  Yes,  but  you 
must  use  the  tools  that  come  to  hand,  and  be  glad 
for  them,  if  you  want  to  get  things  done.  Bludg* 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR  31I 

eons  were  needed  just  then,  and,  after  all,  you  can 
get  a good  deal  of  fun  out  of  one  when  it  is  needed. 
I know  I did.  By  that  time  the  whole  battle  with 
the  slum  had  evolved  itself  out  of  the  effort  to  clean 
one  pig-sty,  and,  as  for  my  own  share  in  it,  to  settle 
for  one  dead  dog.  It  was  raging  all  along  the  line 
with  demands  for  tenement-house  reform  and  the 
destruction  of  the  old  rookeries ; for  parks  for  the 
people  who  were  penned  up  in  the  slum ; for  play- 
grounds for  their  children ; for  decent  teaching  and 
decent  schools.  There  were  too  many  dark  spots 
in  New  York  where  we  had  neither.  So  dense  was 
the  ignorance  of  the  ruling  powers  of  the  needs  and 
real  condition  of  the  public  schools,  which,  on  parade 
days,  they  spoke  of  sententiously  as  the  “corner-stone 
of  our  liberties,”  while  the  people  cheered  the  senti- 
ment, that  it  was  related  how  a Tammany  Mayor 
had  appointed  to  the  office  of  school  trustee  in  the 
Third  Ward  a man  who  had  been  dead  a whole 
year,  and  how,  when  the  world  marvelled,  it  had 
been  laughed  off  at  the  City  Hall  with  the  com- 
ment that  what  did  it  matter:  there  were  no  schools 
in  the  ward  ; it  was  the  wholesale  grocery  district.  I 
do  not  know  how  true  it  was,  but  there  was  no  rea- 
son why  it  miglT  not  be.  It  was  exactly  on  a par 
with  tlie  rest  of  it.  I do  not  mean  to  say  that  there 
were  no  good  schools  in  New  York.  There  were 
some  as  good  as  anywhere;  for  there  were  high- 


312 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


souled  teachers  who  redeemed  even  the  slough  we 
were  in  from  utter  despair.  But  they  were  there  in 
spite  of  it  and  they  were  far  from  being  the  rule. 
Let  us  hope  for  the  day  when  that  shall  have  been 
reversed  as  a statement  of  fact.  No  one  will  hail 
it  more  gladly  than  I.  There  is  an  easy  way  of 
putting  it  to  the  test ; we  did  it  once  before. 
Broach  a measure  of  school  reform  and  see  what 
the  question  is  that  will  be  asked  by  the  teachers. 
If  it  is,  “ How  is  it  going  to  benefit  the  children.^  ” 
hoist  the  flag;  the  day  of  deliverance  is  at  hand. 
In  the  battle  I refer  to  that  question  was  not  asked 
once.  The  teachers  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  for 
their  rights,  let  the  children  fare  as  they  might. 

However,  that  is  an  old  grievance.  We  had  it 
out  over  it  once,  and  I have  no  mind  to  rip  it  up 
again  unless  it  is  needed.  My  own  father  was  a 
teacher;  perhaps  that  is  one  reason  why  I revere 
the  calling  so  that  I would  keep  its  skirts  clear  of 
politics  at  any  hazard.  Another  is  that  I most 
heartily  subscribe  to  the  statement  that  the  public 
school  is  the  corner-stone  of  our  liberties,  and  to 
the  sentiment  that  would  keep  the  flag  flying  over 
it  always.  Only  I want  as  much  respect  for  the 
flag:  a clean  school  under  an  unsoiled  flag!  So  we 
shall  pull  through;  not  otherwise.  The  thing 
requires  no  argument. 

My  own  effort  in  that  fight  was  mainly  for  decent 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


313 


schoolhouses,  for  playgrounds,  and  for  a truant 
school  to  keep  the  boys  out  of  jail.  If  I was  not 
competent  to  argue  over  the  curriculum  with  a 
professor  of  pedagogy,  I could  tell,  at  least,  if  a 
schoolroom  was  so  jammed  that  to  let  me  pass  into 
the  next  room  the  children  in  the  front  seat  had 


The  Boys’  “Playground”  in  an  Old-time  School. 


to  rise  and  stand ; or  if  there  was  light  enough  for 
them  to  see  their  slates  or  the  blackboard.  Nor 
did  it  take  the  wisdom  of  a Solomon  to  decide  that 
a dark  basement  room,  thirty  by  fifty  feet,  full  of 
rats,  was  not  a proper  place  for  a thousand  children 
to  call  their  only  “playground.”  Play,  in  the  kin- 
dergarten scheme,  is  the  “ normal  occupation  of 
the  child  through  which  he  first  begins  to  perceive 


314 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


moral  relations/’  Nice  kind  of  morals  burrowed 
there  for  him ! There  was,  in  the  whole  of  Man- 
hattan, but  a single  outdoor  playground  attached 
to  a public  school,  and  that  was  an  old  burial-ground 
in  First  Street  that  had  been  wrested  from  the  dead 
with  immense  toil.  When  I had  fed  fat  my  grudge 
upon  these  things,  I could  still  go  where  the  public 
school  children  came,  and  learn,  by  a little  judicious 
pumping,  how  my  friend,  the  professor,  had  stored 
their  minds.  That  is,  if  they  did  not  come  to  me. 
Many  hundreds  of  them  did,  when  under  Roosevelt 
we  needed  two  thousand  new  policemen,  and  it  was 
from  some  of  them  we  learned  that  among  the 
thirteen  States  which  formed  the  Union  were  “ Eng- 
land, Ireland,  Wales,  Belfast,  and  Cork”;  that  Abra- 
ham Lincoln  was  “ murdered  by  Ballington  Booth,” 
and  that  the  Fire  Department  was  in  charge  of 
the  city  government  when  the  Mayor  was  away. 
Don’t  I wish  it  were,  and  that  they  would  turn  the 
hose  on  a while!  What  a lot  of  trouble  it  would 
save  us  in  November. 

As  for  a truant  school,  the  lack  of  one  was  the 
worst  outrage  of  all,  for  it  compelled  the  sending 
of  boys,  who  had  done  no  worse  harm  than  to  play 
hooky  on  a sunny  spring  day,  to  a jail  with  iron 
bars  in  the  windows.  For  the  boy  who  did  this 
wicked  thing  — let  me  be  plain  about  it  and  say 
that  if  he  had  not;  if  he  had  patiently  preferred 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


315 


some  of  the  schools  I knew  to  a day  of  freedom  out 
in  the  sunshine,  I should  have  thought  him  a mis- 
erable little  lunkhead  quite  beyond  hope!  As  for 
those  who  locked  him  up,  almost  nothing  I can 
think  of  would  be  bad  enough  for  them.  The 
whole  effort  of  society  should  be,  and  is  getting  to 
be  more  and  more,  thank  goodness  and  common 
sense,  to  keep  the  boy  out  of  jail.  To  run  to  it 
with  him  the  moment  the  sap  begins  to  boil  up  in 
him  and  he  does  any  one  of  the  thousand  things  we 
have  all  done  or  wanted  to  do  if  we  dared,  why,  it 
is  sinful  folly.  I am  not  saying  that  there  are  not 
boys  who  ought  to  be  in  jail,  though  to  my  mind 
it  is  the  poorest  use  you  can  put  them  to;  but  to 
put  truants  there,  to  learn  all  the  tricks  the  jail  has 
to  teach,  with  them  in  the  frame  of  mind  in  which 
it  receives  them,  — for  boys  are  not  fools,  whatever 
those  who  are  set  over  them  may  be,  and  they 
know  when  they  are  ill-used,  — I know  of  nothing 
so  wickedly  wasteful.  That  was  our  way ; is  still 
in  fact,  to  a large  extent,  though  the  principle  has 
been  disavowed  as  both  foul  and  foolish.  But  in 
those  days  tlie  defenders  of  the  system  — Heaven 
save  the  mark ! — fought  for  it  yet,  and  it  was  give 
and  take  right  along,  every  day  and  all  day. 

Before  this,  in  time  to  bear  a strong  hand  in  it 
all,  there  had  come  into  the  field  a new  force  that 
was  destined  to  give  both  energy  and  direction 


3i6 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


to  our  scattered  efforts  for  reform.  Up  till  then 
we  had  been  a band  of  guerillas,  the  incentive 
proceeding  usually  from  Dr.  Felix  Adler,  Mrs. 
Josephine  Shaw  Lowell,  or  some  one  of  their  stamp; 
and  the  rest  of  us  joining  in  to  push  that  cart  up 
the  hill,  then  taking  time  to  breathe  until  another 
came  along  that  needed  a lift.  The  social  settle- 
ments, starting  as  neighborhood  guilds  to  reassert 
the  lost  brotherhood,  became  almost  from  the  first  the 
fulcrum,  as  it  were,  whence  the  lever  for  reform  was 
applied,  because  the  whole  idea  of  that  reform 
was  to  better  the  lot  of  those  whom  the  prosperous 
up-town  knew  vaguely  only  as  “ the  poor.”  If  parks 
were  wanted,  if  schools  needed  bettering,  there  were 
at  the  College  Settlement,  the  University  Settle- 
ment, the  Nurses’  Settlement,  and  at  a score  of 
other  such  places,  young  enthusiasts  to  collect  the 
facts  and  to  urge  them,  with  the  prestige  of  their 
non-political  organization  to  back  them.  The  Hull 
House  out  in  Chicago  set  the  pace,  and  it  was 
kept  up  bravely  at  this  end  of  the  line.  For  one, 
I attached  myself  as  a kind  of  volunteer  “auxiliary” 
to  the  College  Settlement  — that  was  what  the  girls 
there  called  me  — and  to  any  one  that  would  have 
me,  and  so  in  a few  years’  time  slid  easily  into 
the  day  when  my  ruder  methods  were  quite  out  of 
date  and  ready  to  be  shelved. 

How  it  came  about  that,  almost  before  I knew  it, 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


317 


my  tongue  was  enlisted  in  the  fight  as  well  as  my 
pen  I do  not  know  myself.  It  could  not  be  because 
I had  a “ silver-tongue,”  for  I read  in  the  local  news- 
paper one  day  when  I had  been  lecturing  in  the 
western  part  of  the  state  that  “ a voluble  German 
with  a voice  like  a squeaky  cellar-door  ” had  been 
in  town.  It  seems  that  I had  fallen  into  another 
newspaper  row,  all  unsuspecting,  and  was  in  the 
opposition  editor’s  camp.  But,  truly,  I lay  no  claim 
to  eloquence.  So  it  must  have  been  the  facts,  again. 
There  is  nothing  like  them.  Whatever  it  was,  it 
made  me  smile  sometimes  in  the  middle  of  a speech 
to  think  of  the  prophecies  when  I was  a schoolboy 
that  “my  tongue  would  be  my  undoing,”  for  here  it 
was  helping  right  wrongs  instead.  In  fact,  that  was 
what  it  had  tried  to  do  in  the  old  days  when  the  teach- 
ers were  tyrannical.  It  entered  the  lists  here  when 
Will  Craig,  a clerk  in  the  Health  Department,  with 
whom  I had  struck  up  a friendship,  helped  me  turn 
my  photographs  into  magic-lantern  slides  by  paying 
the  bills,  and  grew  from  that,  until  now  my  winters 
are  spent  on  the  lecture  platform  altogether.  I 
always  liked  the  work.  It  tires  less  than  the  office 
routine,  and  you  feel  the  touch  with  your  fellows 
more  than  when  you  sit  and  write  your  message. 
Also,  if  you  wish  to  learn  about  a thing,  the  best 
way  is  always  to  go  and  try  to  teach  some  one  else 
that  thing.  I never  make  a speech  on  a subject  I 


3i8  the  making  of  an  AMERICAN 

am  familiar  with  but  that  I come  away  knowing 
more  about  it  than  I did  at  the  start,  though  no  one 
else  may  have  said  a word. 

Then  there  is  the  chairman.  You  never  can  tell 
what  sort  of  surprise  is  in  store  for  you.  In  a 
Massachusetts  town  last  winter  I was  hailed  on  the 
stage  by  one  of  his  tribe,  a gaunt,  funereal  sort  of 
man,  who  wanted  to  know  what  he  should  say 
about  me. 

“ Oh,”  said  I,  in  a spirit  of  levity,  “ say  anything 
you  like.  Say  I am  the  most  distinguished  citizen 
in  the  country.  They  generally  do.” 

Whereupon  my  funereal  friend  marched  upon  the 
stage  and  calmly  announced  to  the  audience  that  he 
did  not  know  this  man  Riis,  whom  he  was  charged 
with  introducing,  never  heard  of  him. 

“ He  tells  me,”  he  went  on  with  never  a wink, 
“that  he  is  the  most  distinguished  citizen  in  the 
country.  You  can  judge  for  yourselves  when  you 
have  heard  him.” 

I thought  at  first  it  was  some  bad  kind  of  joke ; 
but  no  ! He  was  i^ot  that  kind  of  man.  I do  not 
suppose  he  had  smiied  since  he  was  born.  Maybe 
he  was  an  undertaker.  Assuredly,  he  ought  to  he. 
But  he  had  bowels  after  all.  Instead  of  going  off 
the  stage  and  leaving  me  blue  with  rage,  he  stayed 
to  exhort  the  audience  in  a fifteen  minutes’  speech 
to  vote  right,  or  something  of  that  sort.  The  single 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


319 


remark,  when  at  last  he  turned  his  back,  that  it  was 
a relief  to  have  him  “ extinguished,”  made  us  men 
and  brothers,  that  audience  and  me.  I think  of  him 
with  almost  as  much  pleasure  as  I do  of  that  city 
editor  chap  out  in  Illinois  who  came  blowing  upon 
the  platform  at  the  last  minute  and  handed  me  a 
typewritten  speech  with  the  question  if  that  would 
do.  I read  it  over.  It  began  with  the  statement 
that  it  was  the  general  impression  that  all  newspaper- 
men were  liars,  and  went  on  by  easy  stages  to  point 
out  that  there  were  exceptions,  myself  for  instance. 
The  rest  was  a lot  of  praise  to  which  I had  no 
claim.  I said  so,  and  that  I wished  he  would  leave 
it  out. 

“ Oh,  well,”  he  said,  with  a happy  smile,  “ don’t  you 
see  it  gives  you  your  cue.  Then  you  can  turn 
around  and  say  that  anyway  I am  a liar.” 

With  tongue  or  pen,  the  argument  shaped  itself 
finally  into  the  fundamental  one  for  the  rescue  of 
the  home  imperilled  by  the  slum.  There  all  roads 
met.  Good  citizenship  hung  upon  that  issue.  Say 
what  you  will,  a man  cannot  live  like  a pig  and  vote 
like  a man.  The  dullest  of  us  saw  it.  The  tene- 
ment had  given  to  New  York  the  name  of  “the 
homeless  city.”  But  with  that  gone  which  made 
life  worth  living,  what  were  liberty  worth  ? With 
no  home  to  cherish,  how  long  before  love  of  country 
would  be  an  empty  sound?  Life,  liberty,  pursuit  of 


320 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


happiness?  Wind  ! says  the  slum,  and  the  slum  is 
right  if  we  let  it  be.  We  cannot  get  rid  of  the 
tenements  that  shelter  two  million  souls  in  New 
York  to-day,  but  we  set  about  making  them  at  least 
as  nearly  fit  to  harbor  human  souls  as  might  be. 
That  will  take  a long  time  yet.  But  a beginning 
was  made.  With  reform  looming  upon  the  heels  of 
the  Lexow  disclosures  came  the  Gilder  Tenement- 
House  Commission  in  the  autumn  of  1894. 


Typical  East  Side  Tenement  Block. 

Five  hundred  babies  in  it,  not  one  bathtub. 


Greater  work  was  never  done  for  New  York  than 
by  that  faithful  body  of  men.  The  measure  of  it  is 
not  to  be  found  in  what  was  actually  accomplished, 
though  the  volume  of  that  was  great,  but  in  what  it 
made  possible.  Upon  the  foundations  they  laid 
down  we  may  build  for  all  time  and  be  the  better 
for  it.  Light  and  air  acquired  a legal  claim,  and 
where  the  sun  shines  into  the  slum,  the  slum  is 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


321 


doomed.  The  worst  tenements  were  destroyed ; 
parks  were  opened,  schools  built,  playgrounds 
made.  The  children’s  rights  were  won  back  for 
them.  The  slum  denied  them  even  the  chance  to 
live,  for  it  was  shown  that  the  worst  rear  tenements 
murdered  the  babies  at  the  rate  of  one  in  five.  The 
Commission  made  it  clear  that  the  legislation  that 
was  needed  was  “the  kind  that  would  root  out  every 
old  ramshackle  disease-breeding  tenement  in  the 
city.”  That  was  the  way  to  begin  it.  As  to  the  rest 
of  them,  it  laid  the  foundation  deeper  yet,  for  it 
made  us  see  that  life  in  them  “ conduces  to  the 
corruption  of  the  young.”  That  told  it  all.  It 
meant  that  a mortgage  was  put  on  the  civic  life  of 
the  morrow,  which  was  not  to  be  borne.  We  were 
forewarned. 

The  corruption  of  the  young ! We  move  with 
rapid  strides  in  our  time.  That  which  was  a threat, 
scoffed  at  by  many,  has  become  a present  and  dread- 
ful peril  in  half  a dozen  brief  years.  We  took  a 
short  cut  to  make  it  that  when  we  tried  to  drain  the 
pool  of  police  blackmail  of  which  the  Lexow  dis- 
closures had  shown  us  the  hideous  depths.  We 
drained  it  into  the  tenements,  and  for  the  police 
infamy  got  a real-estate  blackmail  that  is  worse. 
The  chairman  of  the  Committee  of  Fifteen  tells  us 
that  of  more  than  a hundred  tenements,  full  of 
growing  children,  which  his  committee  has  can- 


322 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


vassed,  not  one  had  escaped  the  contamination  that 
piles  up  the  landlord’s  profits.  Twelve  dollars  for 
an  honest  flat,  thirty  for  the  other  kind  and  no 
questions  asked ! I find  in  my  scrap-book  this 
warning,  sounded  by  me  in  the  Christmas  holidays, 
1893,  when  the  country  was  ringing  with  Dr.  Park- 
hurst’s  name : — 

“ I would  not,  whatever  else  might  happen,  by 
any  hasty  or  ill-advised  system  of  wholesale  raids 
crowd  these  women  into  the  tenements  and  flats 
of  our  city.  ^That  is  what  will  surely  happen,  is 
happening  now.  It  is  a danger  infinitely  greater 
than  any  flowing  from  their  presence  where  they 
are,  and  as  they  are.  Each  centre  of  moral  conta- 
gion by  this  scattering  process  becomes  ten  or 
twenty,  planted  where  they  will  do  the  most  pos- 
sible harm.  Think  of  the  children  brought  in  daily, 
hourly  contact  with  this  vice  ! Think  of  the  thou- 
sands of  young  women  looking  vainly  for  work  this 
hard  winter!  Be  there  ever  so  little  money  for 
woman’s  honest  work,  there  is  always  enough  to 
buy  her  virtue.  Have  tenement  houses  moral  re- 
sources that  can  be  trusted  to  keep  her  safe  from 
this  temptation  ? 

“ This  is  a wicked  villany  that  must  not  be  per- 
mitted, come  whatever  else  may.  We  hear  of  dan- 
ger to  ‘ our  young  men,’  from  present  conditions. 
What  sort  of  young  men  must  they  be  who  would 


I BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


323 


risk  the  sacrifice  of  their  poorer  sisters  for  their 
own  ‘ safety  ’ ? And  it  is  being  risked  wherever 
houses  of  this  kind  are  being  shut  up  and  the 
women  turned  into  the  streets,  there  to  shift  for 
themselves.  The  jail  does  not  keep  them.  Chris- 
tian families  will  not  receive  them.  They  cannot 
be  killed.  No  door  opens  to  them:  yet  they  have 
to  go  somewhere.  And  they  go  where  they  think 
they  can  hide  from  the  police  and  still  ply  the  trade 
that  gives  them  the  only  living  society  is  willing 
they  shall  have,  though  it  says  it  is  not.” 

And  they  did  go  there.  Dr.  Parkhurst  was  not 
to  blame.  He  was  fighting  Tammany  that  dealt 
the  cards  and  took  all  the  tricks,  and  for  that  fight 
New  York  owes  him  a debt  it  hardly  yet  knows  of. 
Besides,  though  those  raids  hastened  the  process, 
it  was  already  well  underway.  The  police  extor- 
tion of  itself  would  have  finished  it  in  time.  A 
blackmailer  in  the  long  run  always  kills  the  goose 
that  lays  his  golden  egg.  His  greed  gets  the  better 
of  his  sense.  The  interview  I quoted  was  not  a 
plea  for  legalizing  wrong.  That  will  get  us  no 
farther.  It  was  rather  a summons  to  our  people  to 
cease  skulking  behind  lying  phrases  and  look  the 
matter  squarely  in  the  face.  With  a tenement- 
house  law,  passed  this  winter,  which  sends  the 
woman  to  jail  and  fines  the  landlord  and  his  house 
$1000,  we  shall  be  in  the  way  shortly  of  doing  so. 


324  the  making  of  an  AMERICAN 

Until  we  do  that  justice  first,  I do  not  see  how  we 
can.  Poverty’s  back  is  burdened  enough  without 
our  loading  upon  it  the  sins  we  are  afraid  to  face. 
Meanwhile  we  shall  be  getting  up  courage  to  talk 
plainly  about  it,  which  is  half  the  battle.  Think  of 
the  shock  it  would  have  given  our  grandmothers  to 
hear  of  a meeting  of  women  in  a public  hall  “ to 
protest  against  protected  vice.”  On  a Sunday,  too. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  I do  not  know  but  that  whole- 
some, plain  speech  on  this  subject  is  nearer  the 
whole  than  half  the  battle.  I rather  guess  it  is. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


ROOSEVELT  COMES MULBERRY  STREET’s  GOLDEN 

AGE 

See  now  how  things  fall  out.  Hardly  had  I sent 
the  chapter  to  the  printer  in  which  I posted  proof- 
readers as  enemies  of  mankind  when  here  comes  the 
proof  of  the  previous  one  with  a cordial  note  of 
thanks  from  this  particular  enemy  “ for  the  inspira- 
tion ” he  found  in  it.  So  then  I was  mistaken,  as 
I have  been  often  before,  and  owe  him  the  confes- 
sion. Good  land ! what  are  we  that  we  should 
think  ourselves  always  right,  or,  lest  we  do  wrong, 
sit  idle  all  our  lives  waiting  for  light  ? The  light 
comes  as  we  work  toward  it.  Roosevelt  was  right 
when  he  said  that  the  only  one  who  never  makes 
mistakes  is  the  one  who  never  does  anything.  Pre- 
serve us  from  him ; from  the  man  who  eternally 
wants  to  hold  the  scales  even  and  so  never  gets 
done  weighing  — never  hands  anything  over  the 
counter.  Take  him  away  and  put  red  blood  into 
his  veins.  And  let  the  rest  of  us  go  ahead  and 
make  our  mistakes  — as  few  as  we  can,  as  many  as 
we  must;  only  let  us  go  ahead. 

325 


326  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

All  of  which  has  reference  to  other  things  I have 
in  mind,  not  to  the  proof-reader,  against  whom  I 
have  no  grudge  to-day.  As  for  him,  perhaps,  he 
is  just  a sign  that  the  world  moves. 

Move  it  did  at  last  in  the  year  (1894)  that  gave 
us  the  Lexow  Investigating  Committee,  the  Citizens’ 
Seventy,  and  reform.  Tammany  went  out,  speeded 
on  its  way  by  Dr.  Parkhurst,  and  an  administra- 
tion came  in  that  was  pledged  to  all  we  had  been 
longing  and  laboring  for.  For  three  years  we  had 
free  hands  and  we  used  them.  Mayor  Strong’s 
administration  was  not  the  millennium,  but  it 
brought  New  York  much  nearer  to  it  than  it  had 
ever  been,  and  it  set  up  some  standards  toward 
which  we  may  keep  on  striving  with  profit  to  our- 
selves. The  Mayor  himself  was  not  a saint.  He 
was  an  honest  gentleman  of  sturdy  purpose  to  do 
the  right,  and,  normally,  of  singular  practical  wis- 
dom in  choosing  the  men  to  help  him  do  it,  but 
with  an  intermittent  delusion  that  he  was  a shrewd 
politician.  When  it  came  uppermost  he  made  bar- 
gains and  appointed  men  to  office  who  did  their 
worst  to  undo  what  good  the  Warings,  the  Roose^ 
velts,  and  their  kind  had  wrought.  In  the  struggle 
that  ensued  Mayor  Strong  was  always  on  the  side 
of  right,  but  when  he  wanted  most  to  help  he  could 
not.  It  is  the  way  of  the  world.  Nevertheless,  as 
I said,  it  moved. 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


327 


How  far  we  came  Is  history,  plain  to  read  in  our 
streets  that  will  never  again  be  as  dirty  as  they 
were,  though  they  may  not  be  as  clean  as  Waring 
left  them ; in  the  threescore  splendid  new  school- 
houses  that  stand  as  monuments  of  those  busy 
years ; in  the  open  spots  that  let  the  sunlight  into 
the  slum  where  it  was  darkest  and  most  foul ; in 
the  death  rate  that  came  down  from  26.32  per  thou- 
sand of  the  living  in  1887  to  19.53  in  1897.  That 
was  the  “Ten  Years’  War”H  wrote  about  and  have 
here  before  referred  to.  The  three  years  of  the 
Strong  administration  saw  all  the  big  battles  in 
which  we  beat  the  slum.  I am  not  going  to  re- 
hearse them,  for  I am  trying  to  tell  my  own  story, 
and  now  I am  soon  done  with  it.  I carried  a gun 
as  a volunteer  in  that  war,  and  that  was  all ; not 
even  in  the  ranks  at  that.  I was  ever  an  irregular, 
given  to  sniping  on  my  own  hook.  Roosevelt,  in- 
deed, wanted  me  to  have  a seat  among  Mayor 
Strong’s  official  advisers ; but  we  had  it  out  over 
that  when  he  told  me  of  it,  and  the  compact  we 
made  that  he  should  never  ask  that  service  of  me 
he  has  kept.  So  he  spared  the  Mayor  much  em- 
barrassment ; for,  as  I said,  I am  not  good  in  the 
ranks,  more  is  the  pity : and  me  he  saved  for  such 
use  as  I could  be  of,  wliich  was  well.  For  shortly 
it  all  centred  in  Mulberry  Street,  where  he  was. 

We  were  not  strangers.  It  could  not  have  been 

^ Now,  “The  Battle  with  the  Slum.” 


328 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


long  after  I wrote  “ How  the  Other  Half  Lives  ” 
that  he  came  to  the  Evening  Smi  office  one  day 
looking  for  me.  I was  out,  and  he  left  his  card, 
merely  writing  on  the  back  of  it  that  he  had  read 
my  book  and  had  “ come  to  help.”  That  was  all, 
and  it  tells  the  whole  story  of  the  man.  I loved 
him  from  the  day  I first  saw  him ; nor  ever  in  all 
the  years  that  have  passed  has  he  failed  of  the 
promise  made  then.  No  one  ever  helped  as  he  did. 
For  two  years  we  were  brothers  in  Mulberry  Street. 
When  he  left  I had  seen  its  golden  age.  I knew 
too  well  the  evil  day  that  was  coming  back  to  have 
any  heart  in  it  after  that. 

Not  that  we  were  carried  heavenward  “on  flow- 
ery beds  of  ease  ” while  it  lasted.  There  is  very 
little  ease  where  Theodore  Roosevelt  leads,  as  we 
all  of  us  found  out.  The  lawbreaker  found  it  out 
who  predicted  scornfully  that  he  would  “ knuckle 
down  to  politics  the  way  they  all  did,”  and  lived  to 
respect  him,  though  he  swore  at  him,  as  the  one  of 
them  all  who  was  stronger  than  pull.  The  peace- 
loving  citizen  who  hastened  to  Police  Headquarters 
with  anxious  entreaties  to  “ use  discretion  ” in  the 
enforcement  of  unpopular  laws  found  it  out  and 
went  away  with  a new  and  breathless  notion  well- 
ing up  in  him  of  an  official’s  sworn  duty.  That 
was  it ; that  was  what  made  the  age  golden,  that 
for  the  first  time  a moral  purpose  came  into  the 


President  Theodore  Roosevelt,  of  the  Police  Board. 


V 


V. 


I 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


329 


street.  In  the  light  of  it  everything  was  trans- 
formed. 

Not  all  at  once.  It  took  us  weary  months  to 
understand  that  the  shouting  about  the  “ enforce- 
ment of  the  dead  Excise  Law  ” was  lying  treachery 
or  rank  ignorance,  one  as  bad  as  the  other.  The 
Excise  Law  was  not  dead.  It  was  never  so  much 
alive  as  under  Tammany,  but  it  was  enforced  only 
against  those  saloon-keepers  who  needed  discipline. 
It  was  a Tammany  club,  used  to  drive  them  into 
camp  with ; and  it  was  used  so  vigorously  that  no 
less  than  eight  thousand  arrests  were  made  under 
it  in  the  year  before  Roosevelt  made  them  all  close 
up.  Pretty  lively  corpse,  that ! But  we  understood 
at  last,  most  of  us ; understood  that  the  tap-root  of 
the  police  blackmail  was  there,  and  that  it  had  to  be 
pulled  up  if  we  were  ever  to  get  farther.  We  under- 
stood that  we  were  the  victims  of  our  own  sham- 
ming, and  we  grew  to  be  better  citizens  for  it.  The 
police  force  became  an  army  of  heroes  — for  a sea- 
son. All  the  good  in  it  came  out ; and  there  is  a 
lot  of  it  in  the  worst  of  times.  Roosevelt  had  the 
true  philosopher’s  stone  that  turns  dross  to  gold,  in 
his  own  sturdy  faith  in  his  fellow-man.  Men  be- 
came good  because  he  thought  them  so. 

By  which  I am  not  to  be  understood  as  meaning 
that  he  just  voted  them  good  — the  police,  for 
instance  — and  sat  by  waiting  to  see  the  wings 


330 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


grow.  No,  but  he  helped  them  sprout.  It  is  long 
since  I have  enjoyed  anything  so  much  as  I did 
those  patrol  trips  of  ours  on  the  “ last  tour  ” between 
midnight  and  sunrise,  which  earned  for  him  the 
name  of  Haroun  al  Roosevelt.  I had  at  last  found 
one  who  was  willing  to  get  up  when  other  people 
slept  — including,  too  often,  the  police  — and  see 
what  the  town  looked  like  then.  He  was  more 
than  willing.  I laid  out  the  route,  covering  ten  or  a 
dozen  patrol-posts,  and  we  met  at  2 a.m.  on  the  steps 
of  the  Union  League  Club,  objects  of  suspicion  on 
the  part  of  two  or  three  attendants  and  a watchman 
who  shadowed  us  as  night-prowlers  till  we  were  out 
of  their  bailiwick.  I shall  never  forget  that  first 
morning  when  we  travelled  for  three  hours  along 
First  and  Second  and  Third  avenues,  from  Forty- 
second  Street  to  Bellevue,  and  found  of  ten  patrol- 
men just  one  doing  his  work  faithfully.  Two  or 
three  were  chatting  on  saloon  corners  and  guyed 
the  President  of  the  Board  when  he  asked  them  if 
that  was  what  they  were  there  for.  One  was  sitting 
asleep  on  a butter-tub  in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk, 
snoring  so  that  you  could  hear  him  across  the  street, 
and  was  inclined  to  be  “ sassy  ” when  aroused  and 
told  to  go  about  his  duty.  Mr.  Roosevelt  was  a 
most  energetic  roundsman  and  a fair  one  to  boot. 
It  was  that  quality  which  speedily  won  him  the 
affection  of  the  force.  He  hunted  high  and  low 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


331 


before  he  gave  up  his  man,  giving  him  every 
chance.  We  had  been  over  one  man’s  beat  three 
times,  searching  every  nook  and  cranny  of  it,  and 
were  reluctantly  compelled  to  own  that  he  was 
not  there,  when  the 
“boss”  of  an  all-night 
restaurant  on  Third 
Avenue  came  out 
with  a club  as  we 
passed  and  gave  the 
regulation  signal 
raps  on  the  sidewalk. 

There  was  some  trou- 
ble in  his  place. 

Three  times  he  re- 
peated the  signal 
calling  for  the  patrol- 
man on  the  beat  be- 
fore he  turned  to 
Roosevelt,  who  stood 

by,  with  the  angry  “One  was  sitting  asleep  on  a butter- 

exclamation : — 


“ Where  in  thunder  does  that  copper  sleep  ? He 
orter  d tole  me  when  he  giv’  up  the  barber-shop,  so’s 
a fellow  could  find  him.” 


W e didn’t  find  him  then,  but  he  found  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  Board  later  on  when  summoned  to 
Police  Headquarters  to  explain  why  he  had  changed 


332 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


his  sleeping  quarters.  The  whole  force  woke  up  as 
a result  of  that  night’s  work,  and  it  kept  awake  those 
two  years,  for,  as  it  learned  by  experience,  Mr. 
Roosevelt’s  spectacles  might  come  gleaming  around 
the  corner  at  any  hour.  He  had  not  been  gone  a 
year  before  the  Chief  found  it  necessary  to  transfer 
half  the  force  in  an  up-town  precinct  to  keep  it 
awake.  The  firemen  complained  that  fires  at  night 
gained  too  much  headway  while  the  police  slept. 
There  was  no  Roosevelt  to  wake  them  up. 

Looking  after  his  patrolmen  was  not  the  only 
errand  that  took  him  abroad  at  night.  As  Police 
President,  Mr.  Roosevelt  was  a member  of  the 
Health  Board,  and  sometimes  it  was  the  tenements 
we  went  inspecting  when  the  tenants  slept.  He 
was  after  facts,  and  learned  speedily  to  get  them  as 
he  could.  When,  as  Governor,  he  wanted  to  know 
just  how  the  Factory  Law  was  being  executed,  he 
came  down  from  Albany  and  spent  a whole  day 
with  me  personally  investigating  tenements  in  which 
sweating  was  carried  on.  I had  not  found  a Gov- 
ernor before,  or  a Police  President  either,  who  would 
do  it ; but  so  he  learned  exactly  what  he  wanted  to 
know,  and  what  he  ought  to  do,  and  did  it. 

I never  saw  Theodore  Roosevelt  to  better  advan- 
tage than  when  he  confronted  the  labor  men  at 
their  meeting-place.  Clarendon  Hall.  The  police 
were  all  the  time  having  trouble  with  strikers  and 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


333 


their  “ pickets.”  Roosevelt  saw  that  it  was  because 
neither  party  understood  fully  the  position  of  the 
other  and,  with  his  usual  directness,  sent  word  to 
the  labor  orranizations  that  he  would  like  to  talk  it 

O 

over  with  them.  At  his  request  I went  with  him  to 
the  meeting.  It  developed  almost  immediately  that 
the  labor  men  had  taken  a wrong  measure  of  the 
man.  They  met  him  as  a politician  playing  for 
points,  and  hinted  at  trouble  unless  their  demands 
were  met.  Mr.  Roosevelt  broke  them  off  short : — 

“ Gentlemen  ! ” he  said,  with  that  snap  of  the  jaws 
that  always  made  people  listen,  “ I asked  to  meet 
you,  hoping  that  we  might  come  to  understand  one 
another.  Remember,  please,  before  we  go  farther, 
that  the  worst  injury  any  one  of  you  can  do  to  the 
cause  of  labor  is  to  counsel  violence.  It  will  also  be 
worse  for  himself.  Understand  distinctly  that  order 
will  be  kept.  The  police  will  keep  it.  Now  we 
can  proceed.” 

I was  never  so  proud  and  pleased  as  when  they 
applauded  him  to  the  echo.  He  reddened  with 
pleasure,  for  he  saw  that  the  best  in  them  had  come 
out  on  top,  as  he  expected  it  would. 

It  was  of  this  incident  that  a handle  was  first 
made  by  Mr.  Roosevelt’s  enemies  in  and  out  of  the 
Police  Board  — and  he  had  many  — to  attack  him. 
It  happened  that  there  was  a music  hall  in  the 
building  in  which  the  labor  men  met.  The  yellow 


334 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


newspapers  circulated  the  lie  that  he  went  there  on 
purpose  to  see  the  show,  and  the  ridiculous  story  - 
was  repeated  until  the  liars  nearly  persuaded  them- 
selves that  it  was  so.  They  would  not  have  been 
able  to  understand  the  kind  of  man  they  had  to  do 
with,  had  they  tried.  Accordingly  they  fell  into 
their  own  trap.  It  is  a tradition  of  Mulberry  Street 
that  the  notorious  Seeley  dinner  raid  was  planned 
by  his  enemies  in  the  department  of  which  he  was 
the  head,  in  the  belief  that  they  would  catch  Mr. 
Roosevelt  there.  The  diners  were  supposed  to  be 
his  “set.” 

Some  time  after  that  I was  in  his  office  one  day 
when  a police  official  of  superior  rank  came  in  and 
requested  private  audience  with  him.  They  stepped 
aside  and  the  policeman  spoke  in  an  undertone, 
urging  something  strongly.  Mr.  Roosevelt  listened. 
Suddenly  I saw  him  straighten  up  as  a man  recoils 
from  something  unclean  and  dismiss  the  other  with 
a sharp:  “No,  sir!  I don’t  fight  that  way.”  The 
policeman  went  out  crestfallen.  Roosevelt  took 
two  or  three  turns  about  the  floor,  struggling  evi- 
dently with  strong  disgust.  He  told  me  afterward 
that  the  man  had  come  to  him  with  what  he  said 
was  certain  knowledge  that  his  enemy  could  that 
night  be  found  in  a known  evil  house  up-town,  which 
it  was  his  alleged  habit  to  visit.  His  proposition 
was  to  raid  it  then  and  so  “get  square.”  To  the 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


335 


policeman  it  must  have  seemed  like  throwing  a 
good  chance  away.  But  it  was  not  Roosevelt’s 
way;  he  struck  no  blow  below  the  belt.  In  the 
Governor’s  chair  afterward  he  gave  the  politicians 
whom  he  fought,  and  who  fought  him,  the  same 
terms.  They  tried  their  best  to  upset  him,  for  they 
had  nothing  to  expect  from  him.  But  they  knew 
and  owned  that  he  fought  fair.  Their  backs  were 
secure.  He  never  tricked  them  to  gain  an  advan- 
tage. A promise  given  by  him  was  always  kept  to 
the  letter. 

Failing  to  trap  him  only  added  to  the  malignity 
of  his  enemies.  Roosevelt  was  warned  that  he  was 
“ shadowed  ” night  and  day,  but  he  laughed  their 
scheming  to  scorn.  It  is  an  article  of  faith  with 
him  that  an  honest  man  has  nothing  to  fear  from 
plotters,  and  he  walked  unharmed  among  their 
snares.  The  whole  country  remembers  the  year- 
long fight  in  the  Police  Board  and  Mayor  Strong’s 
vain  attempt  to  remove  the  obstructionist  who, 
under  an  ill-conceived  law,  was  able  to  hold  up  the 
scheme  of  reform.  Most  of  the  time  I was  com- 
pelled to  stand  idly  by,  unable  to  help.  Once  I 
eased  my  feelings  by  telling  Commissioner  Parker 
in  his  own  office  what  I thought  of  him.  I went  in 
and  shut  the  door,  and  then  told  it  all  to  him.  Nor 
did  I mince  matters ; I might  not  get  so  good  a 
chance  again.  Mr.  Parker  sat  quite  still,  poking 


336 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  fire.  When  I ceased  at  last,  angry  and  exas- 
perated, he  looked  up  and  said  calmly : — 

“ Well,  Mr.  Riis,  what  you  tell  me  has  at  least  the 
merit  of  frankness.” 

You  see  how  it  was.  I should  never  have  been 
able  to  help  in  the  Board.  Out  of  it,  my  chance 
came  at  last  when  it  was  deemed  necessary  to  give 
the  adversary  “ a character.”  Mr.  Roosevelt  had 
been  speaking  to  the  Methodist  ministers,  and  as 
usual  had  carried  all  before  him.  The  community 
was  getting  up  a temper  that  would  shortly  put  an 
end  to  the  deadlock  in  the  Police  Board  and  set  the 
wheels  of  reform  moving  again.  Then  one  day  we 
heard  that  Commissioner  Parker  had  been  invited 
by  the  Christian  Endeavorers  of  an  up-town  church 
to  address  them  on  “ Christian  Citizenship.”  That 
was  not  consecrated  common  sense.  I went  to  the 
convention  of  Endeavorers  the  next  week  and  told 
them  so.  I asked  them  to  send  a despatch  to  Gov- 
ernor Black  then  and  there  endorsing  Roosevelt  and 
Mayor  Strong,  and  urging  him  to  end  the  deadlock 
that  made  public  scandal  by  removing  Commissioner 
Parker;  and  they  did.  I regret  to  say  that  I felt 
compelled  to  take  a like  course  with  the  Methodist 
ministers,  for  so  I grieved  a most  good-natured 
gentleman.  Colonel  Grant,  who  was  Mr.  Parker’s 
ally  in  the  Board.  Grant  was  what  was  described 
as  “ a great  Methodist.”  But  I feel  sure  that 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


337 


Brother  Simmons  would  have  approved  of  me.  I 
was  following  the  course  he  laid  down.  The  one 
loyal  friend  Mr.  Roosevelt  had  in  the  Board  was 
Avery  D.  Andrews,  a strong,  sensible,  and  clean 
young  man,  who  stood  by  his  chief  to  the  last,  and 
left  with  him  a good  mark  on  the  force. 

The  yellow  newspapers  fomented  most  industri- 
ously the  trouble  in  the  Board,  never  failing  to  take 
the  wrong  side  of  any  question.  One  of  them  set 
about  doling  out  free  soup  that  winter,  when  work 
was  slack,  as  a means,  of  course,  of  advertising  its 
own  “ charity.”  Of  all  forms  of  indiscriminate 
almsgiving,  that  is  the  most  offensive  and  most 
worthless,  and  they  knew  it,  or  they  would  not 
have  sent  me  a wheedling  invitation  to  come  and 
inspect  their  “ relief  work,”  offering  to  have  a car- 
riage take  me  around.  I sent  word  back  that  I 
should  certainly  look  into  the  soup,  but  that  I 
should  go  on  foot  to  it.  Roosevelt  and  I made  the 
inspection  together.  We  questioned  the  tramps 
in  line,  and  learned  from  their  own  lips  that  they 
had  come  from  out  of  town  to  take  it  easy  in  a 
city  where  a man  did  not  have  to  work  to  live. 
We  followed  the  pails  that  were  carried  away  from 
the  “relief  station  ” by  children,  their  contents  some- 
times to  figure  afterwards  as  “ free  lunch  ” in  the 
saloon  where  they  had  been  exchanged  for  beer ; 
and,  knowing  the  facts,  we  denounced  the  thing  as 


338 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


a nuisance.  The  paper  printed  testimonials  from 
Commissioners  Parker  and  Grant,  who  certified 
from  Mulberry  Street,  which  they  had  not  left, 
that  the  soup  was  a noble  Christian  charity,  and  so 
thought  it  evened  things  up,  I suppose.  I noticed, 
however,  that  the  soup  ran  out  soon  after,  and  I 
hope  we  have  seen  the  last  of  it.  We  can  afford 
to  leave  that  to  Philadelphia,  where  common  sense 
appears  to  be  drowned  in  it. 

I had  it  out  with  them  at  last  all  together. 
When  I have  told  of  it  let  the  whole  wretched 
thing  depart  and  be  gone  for  good.  It  was  after 
Roosevelt  had  gone  away.  That  he  was  not  there 
was  no  bar  to  almost  daily  attacks  on  him,  under 
which  I chafed,  sitting  at  the  meetings  as  a re- 
porter. I knew  right  well  they  were  intended  to 
provoke  me  to  an  explosion  that  might  have  given 
grounds  for  annoying  me,  and  I kept  my  temper 
until  one  day,  when,  the  subject  of  dives  being 
mentioned.  Commissioner  Parker  drawled,  with  the 
reporter  from  the  soup  journal  whispering  in  his 
ear : — 

“ Was  not  — er-r  — that  the  place  where  — er-r  — 
Mr.  Roosevelt  went  to  see  a show  with  his  friend  ? ” 

He  was  careful  not  to  look  in  my  direction,  but 
the  reporter  did,  and  I leaped  at  the  challenge.  I 
waited  until  the  Board  had  formally  adjourned,  then 
halted  it  as  Mr.  Parker  was  trying  to  escape.  I do 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


339 


not  now  remember  what  I said.  It  would  not  make 
calm  reading,  I suspect.  It  was  the  truth,  anyhow, 
and  came  pretty  near  being  the  whole  truth.  Mr. 
Parker  fled,  putting  his  head  back  through  the  half- 
closed  door  to  explain  that  he  “ only  knew  what 
that  reporter  told”  him.  In  the  security  of  his 
room  it  must  have  occurred  to  him,  however,  that 
he  had  another  string  to  his  bow;  for  at  the  next 
session  Commissioner  Grant  moved  my  expulsion 
because  I had  “ disturbed  the  Board  meeting.”  But 
President  Moss  reminded  him  curtly  that  I had 
done  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  that  ended  it. 

One  of  the  early  and  sensational  results  of  reform 
in  Mulberry  Street  was  the  retirement  of  Superin- 
tendent Byrnes.  There  was  not  one  of  us  all  who 
had  known  him  long  who  did  not  regret  it,  though 
I,  for  one,  had  to  own  the  necessity  of  it ; for  Byrnes 
stood  for  the  old  days  that  were  bad.  But,  chained 
as  he  was  in  the  meanness  and  smallness  of  it  all, 
he  was  yet  cast  in  a different  mould.  Compared 
with  his  successor,  he  was  a giant  every  way. 
Byrnes  was  a “big  policeman.”  We  shall  not  soon 
have  another  like  him,  and  that  may  be  both  good 
and  bad.  He  was  unscrupulous,  he  was  for  Byrnes 
— he  was  a policeman,  in  short,  with  all  the  failings 
of  the  trade.  But  he  made  the  detective  service 
great.  He  chased  the  thieves  to  Europe,  or  gave 
them  license  to  live  in  New  York  on  condition  that 


340 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


they  did  not  rob  there.  He  was  a Czar,  with  all  an 
autocrat’s  irresponsible  powers,  and  he  exercised 
them  as  he  saw  fit.  If  they  were  not  his,  he  took 
them  anyhow;  police  service  looks  to  results  first. 
There  was  that  in  Byrnes  which  made  me  stand  up 
for  him  in  spite  of  it  all.  Twice  I held  Dr.  Park- 

hurst  from  his  throat,  but 
in  the  end  I had  to  admit 
that  the  Doctor  was  right. 
I believed  that,  untram- 
melled, Byrnes  might  have 
been  a mighty  engine  for 
good,  and  it  was  with  sor- 
row I saw  him  go.  He 
left  no  one  behind  him  fit 
to  wear  his  shoes. 

Byrnes  was  a born  po- 
liceman. Those  who  hated 
him  said  he  was  also  a 
born  tyrant.  He  did  ride 
a high  horse  when  the  fit  was  on  him  and  he  thought 
it  served  his  purpose.  So  we  came  into  collision 
in  the  early  days  when  he  was  captain  in  Mercer 
Street.  They  had  a prisoner  over  there  with  a 
story  which  I had  cause  to  believe  my  rivals  had 
obtained.  I went  to  Byrnes  and  was  thundered 
out  of  the  station-house.  There  he  was  boss  and 
it  suited  him  to  let  me  see  it.  We  had  not  met 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


341 


before.  But  we  met  again  that  night.  I went  to 
the  Superintendent  of  Police,  who  was  a Repub- 
lican, and,  applying  all  the  pressure  of  the  Trib- 
une, which  I served,  got  from  him  an  order  on 
Captain  Byrnes  to  let  me  interview  his  prisoner. 
Old  Mr.  Walling  tore  his  hair;  said  the  thing  had 
never  been  done  before,  and  it  had  not.  But  I got 
the  order  and  got  the  interview,  though  Byrnes, 
black  with  rage,  commanded  a policeman  to  stand 
on  either  side  of  the  prisoner  while  I talked  to  him. 
He  himself  stood  by,  glaring  at  me.  It  was  not  a 
good  way  to  get  an  interview,  and,  in  fact,  the  man 
had  nothing  to  tell.  But  I had  my  way  and  I made 
the  most  of  it.  After  that  Captain  Byrnes  and  I 
got  along.  We  got  to  think  a lot  of  each  other 
after  a while. 

Perhaps  he  was  a tyrant  because  he  was  set  over 
crooks,  and  crooks  are  cowards  in  the  presence  of 
authority.  His  famous  “third  degree”  was  chiefly 
what  he  no  doubt  considered  a little  wholesome 
“ slugging.”  He  would  beat  a thief  into  telling 
him  what  he  wanted  to  know.  Thieves  have  no 
rights  a policeman  thinks  himself  bound  to  respect. 
But  when  he  had  to  do  with  men  with  minds  he 
had  other  resources.  He  tortured  his  prisoner  into 
confession  in  the  Unger  murder  case  by  locking 
him  up  out  of  reach  of  a human  voice,  or  sight  of 
a human  face,  in  the  basement  of  Police  Headquar- 


342 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


ters,  and  keeping  him  there  four  days,  fed  by  invisi- 
ble hands.  On  the  fifth  he  had  him  brought  up 
through  a tortuous  way,  where  the  tools  he  had 
used  in  murdering  his  partner  were  displayed  on 
the  walls  as  if  by  accident.  Led  into  the  Inspec- 
tor’s presence  by  the  jailer,  he  was  made  to  stand 
while  Byrnes  finished  a letter.  Then  he  turned  his 
piercing  glance  upon  him  with  a gesture  to  sit. 
The  murderer  sank  trembling  upon  a lounge,  the 
only  piece  of  furniture  in  the  room,  and  sprang  to 
his  feet  with  a shriek  the  next  instant:  it  was  the 
one  upon  which  he  had  slaughtered  his  friend,  all 
blood-bespattered  as  then.  He  sprawled  upon  the 
floor,  a gibbering,  horror-stricken  wretch,  and  con- 
fessed his  sin. 

As  in  this  instance,  so  in  the  McGloin  murder 
case,  the  moral  certainty  of  guilt  was  absolute,  but 
the  legal  evidence  was  lacking.  McGloin  was  a 
young  ruffian  who  had  murdered  a saloon-keeper 
at  a midnight  raid  on  his  place.  He  was  the  fellow 
who  the  night  before  he  was  hanged  invited  the 
Chief  of  Detectives  to  “ come  over  to  the  wake ; 
they’ll  have  a devil  of  a time.”  For  six  months 
Byrnes  had  tried  everything  to  bring  the  crime 
home  to  him,  but  in  vain.  At  last  he  sent  out  and 
had  McGloin  and  his  two  “ pals  ” arrested,  but  so 
that  none  of  them  knew  of  the  plight  of  the  others. 
McGloin  was  taken  to  Mulberry  Street,  and  orders 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


343 


were  given  to  bring  the  others  in  at  a certain 
hour  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  apart.  Byrnes  put 
McGloin  at  the  window  in  his  office  while  he 
questioned  him.  Nothing  could  be  got  out  of  him. 
As  he  sat  there  a door  was  banged  below.  Look- 
ing out  he  saw  one  of  his  friends  led  across  the 
yard  in  charge  of  policemen.  Byrnes,  watching 
him  narrowly,  saw  his  cheek  blanch;  but  still  his 
nerve  held.  Fifteen  minutes  passed;  another  door 
banged.  The  murderer,  looking  out,  saw  his  other 
pal  led  in  a prisoner.  He  looked  at  Byrnes.  The 
Chief  nodded  : — 

“ Squealed,  both.” 

It  was  a lie,  and  it  cost  the  man  his  life.  “ The 
jig  is  up  then,”  he  said,  and  told  the  story  that 
brought  him  to  the  gallows. 

I could  not  let  Byrnes  go  without  a word,  for 
he  filled  a large  space  in  my  life.  It  is  the  reporter, 
I suppose,  who  sticks  out  there.  The  boys  called 
him  a great  faker,  but  they  were  hardly  just  to  him 
in  that.  I should  rather  call  him  a great  actor,  and 
without  being  that  no  man  can  be  a great  detec- 
tive. He  made  life  in  a mean  street  picturesque 
while  he  was  there,  and  for  that  something  is  due 
him.  He  was  the  very  opposite  of  Roosevelt  — 
quite  without  moral  purpose  or  the  comprehension 
of  it,  yet  with  a streak  of  kindness  in  him  that 
sometimes  put  preaching  to  shame.  Mulberry 


344 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Street  swears  by  him  to-day,  even  as  it  does,  under 
its  breath,  by  Roosevelt.  Decide  from  that  for 
yourself  whether  his  presence  there  was  for  the 
good  or  the  bad. 

In  writing  “ How  the  Other  Half  Lives  ” I had 
been  at  great  pains  not  to  overstate  my  case.  I 
knew  that  it  would  be  questioned,  and  was  anxious 
that  no  flaws  should  be  picked  in  it,  for,  if  there 
were,  harm  might  easily  come  of  it  instead  of  good. 
I saw  now  that  in  that  I had  been  wise.  The 
Gilder  Tenement-House  Commission  more  than 
confirmed  all  that  I had  said  about  the  tenements 
and  the  schools.  The  Reinhardt  Committee  was 
even  more  emphatic  on  the  topic  of  child  labor.  I 
was  asked  to  serve  on  the  Seventy’s  sub-committee 
on  Small  Parks.  In  the  spring  of  1896,  the  Coun- 
cil of  Confederated  Good  Government  Clubs  ap- 
pointed me  its  general  agent,  and  I held  the 
position  for  a year,  giving  all  my  spare  time  to  the 
planning  and  carrying  out  of  such  work  as  it  seemed 
to  me  ous:ht  to  make  a record  for  a reform  adminis- 
tration.  We  wanted  it  to  last.  That  was  a great 
year.  They  wanted  a positive  programme,  and  my 
notions  of  good  government  were  nothing  if  not 
positive.  They  began  and  ended  with  the  people’s 
life.  We  tore  down  unfit  tenements,  forced  the 
opening  of  parks  and  playgrounds,  the  establish- 
ment of  a truant  school  and  the  remodelling  of  the 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


345 


whole  school  system,  the  demolition  of  the  over- 
crowded old  Tombs  and  the  erection  on  its  site 
of  a decent  new  prison.  We  overhauled  the  civil 
courts  and  made  them  over  new  in  the  charter  of 
the  Greater  New  York.  We  lighted  dark  halls; 
closed  the  “ cruller  ” bakeries  in  tenement-house 
cellars  that  had  caused  the  loss  of  no  end  of  lives, 
for  the  crullers  were  boiled  in  fat  in  the  early 
morning  hours  while  the  tenants  slept,  and  when 
the  fat  was  spilled  in  the  fire  their  peril  was  awful. 
We  fought  the  cable-car  managers  at  home  and 
the  opponents  of  a truant  school  at  Albany.  We 
backed  up  Roosevelt  in  his  fight  in  the  Police 
Board,  and  — well,  I shall  never  get  time  to  tell  it  all. 
But  it  was  a great  year.  That  it  did  not  keep  the 
Good  Government  clubs  alive  was  no  fault  of  my 
programme.  It  was  mine,  I guess.  I failed  to 
inspire  them  with  the  faith  that  was  in  me.  I had 
been  going  it  alone  so  long  that  I did  not  know 
how  to  use  the  new  tool  that  had  come  to  hand. 
There  is  nothing  like  an  organization  if  you  know 
how  to  use  it.  I did  not.  Perhaps,  also,  politics 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  They  were  in  for 
playing  the  game.  I never  understood  it. 

But  if  I did  not  make  the  most  of  it,  I had  a 
good  time  that  year.  There  were  first  the  two 
small  parks  to  be  laid  out  over  on  the  East  Side, 
where  the  Gilder  Commission  had  pointed  to  the 


346  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

smothering  crowds.  I had  myself  made  a member 
of  the  Citizens’  Committee  that  was  appointed  to 
locate  them.  It  did  not  take  us  any  nine  years  or 
six,  or  three.  We  did  the  business  in  three  weeks, 
and  having  chosen  the  right  spots,  we  went  to  the 
Legislature  with  a bill  authorizing  the  city  to  seize 
the  property  at  once,  ahead  of  condemnation,  and  it 
was  passed.  We  were  afraid  that  Tammany  might 
come  back,  and  the  event  proved  that  we  were  wise. 
You  bring  up  the  people  slowly  to  a reform  pro- 
gramme, particularly  when  it  costs  money.  They  will 
pay  for  corruption  with  a growl,  but  seem  to  think 
that  virtue  ought  always  to  be  had  for  nothing.  It 
makes  the  politicians’  game  easy.  They  steal  the 
money  for  improvements,  and  predict  that  reform 
will  raise  the  tax-rate.  When  the  prophecy  comes 
true,  they  take  the  people  back  in  their  sheltering 
embrace  with  an  “ I told  you  so ! ” and  the  people 
nestle  there  repentant.  There  was  a housing  con- 
ference at  which  that  part  of  the  work  was  parcelled 
out:  the  building  of  model  tenements  to  the  capi- 
talists who  formed  the  City  and  Suburban  Homes 
Company ; the  erection  of  model  lodging-houses 
to  D.  O.  Mills,  the  banker  philanthropist,  who  was 
anxious  to  help  that  way.  I chose  for  the  Good 
Government  clubs  the  demolition  of  the  old  tene- 
ments. It  was  my  chance.  I hated  them.  A 
law  had  been  made  the  year  before  empowering 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


347 


the  Health  Board  to  seize  and  destroy  tenement- 
house  property  that  was  a threat  to  the  city’s 
health,  but  it  had  remained  a dead  letter.  The 
authorities  hesitated  to  attack  property  rights,  vested 
rights.  Charles  G.  Wilson,  the  President  of  the 
Board,  was  a splendid  executive,  but  he  was  a hold- 
over Tammany  appointee,  and  needed  backing. 

Now  that  Theodore  Roosevelt  sat  in  the  Health 
Board,  fresh  from  his  war  on  the  police  lodging- 
rooms  of  which  I told,  they  hesitated  no  longer. 
I put  before  the  Board  a list  of  the  sixteen  worst 
rear  tenements  in  the  city  outside  of  the  Bend, 
and  while  the  landlords  held  their  breath  in  aston- 
ishment, they  were  seized,  condemned,  and  their 
tenants  driven  out.  The  Mott  Street  Barracks 
were  among  them.  In  1888  the  infant  death-rate 
among  the  350  Italians  they  harbored  had  been  325 
per  thousand  — that  is  to  say,  one-third  of  all  the 
babies  died  that  year.  That  was  the  kind  of  evi- 
dence upon  which  those  rear  tenements  were  ar- 
raigned. Ninety-four  of  them,  all  told,  were  seized 
that  year,  and  in  them  there  had  been  in  four 
years  956  deaths  — a rate  of  62.9  when  the  general 
city  death-rate  was  24.63.  I shall  have  once  more, 
and  for  the  last  time,  to  refer  to  “ A Ten  Years’ 
War”  for  the  full  story  of  that  campaign.  As  I 
said,  it  was  great. 

Conceive,  if  you  can,  the  state  of  mind  of  a man 


348 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


to  whom  a dark,  overcrowded  tenement  had  ever 
been  as  a personal  affront,  now  suddenly  finding 
himself  commissioned  with  letters  of  marque  and 


The  Mott  Street  Barracks. 

reprisal,  as  it  were,  to  seize  and  destroy  the  enemy 
wherever  found,  not  one  at  a time,  but  by  blocks  and 
battalions  in  the  laying  out  of  parks.  I fed  fat  my 
ancient  grudge  and  grew  good  humor  enough  to 
last  me  for  a dozen  years  in  those  two.  They  were 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


349 


the  years  when,  in  spite  of  hard  work,  I began  to 
grow  stout,  and  honestly,  I think  it  was  tearing  down 
tenements  that  did  it.  Directly  or  indirectly,  I had 
a hand  in  destroying  seven  whole  blocks  of  them  as 
I count  it  up.  I wish  it  had  been  seventy. 

The  landlords  sued,  but  the  courts  sided  with  the 
Health  Board.  When  at  last  we  stopped  to  take 
breath  we  had  fairly  broken  the  back  of  the  slum 
and  made  precedents  of  our  own  that  would  last  a 
while.  Mr.  Roosevelt  was  personally  sued  twice,  I 
think,  but  that  was  all  the  good  it  did  them.  We 
were  having  our  innings  that  time,  and  there  were  a 
lot  of  arrears  to  collect.  The  city  paid  for  the  prop- 
erty that  was  taken,  of  course,  and  more  than  it  ought 
to  have  paid,  to  my  way  of  thinking.  The  law  gave 
the  owner  of  a tenement  that  was  altogether  unfit 
just  the  value  of  the  brick  and  timbers  that  were  in 
it.  It  was  enough,  for  “ unfit  ” meant  murderous, 
and  why  should  a man  have  a better  right  to  kill  his 
neighbor  with  a house  than  with  an  axe  in  the  street  ? 
But  the  lawyers  who  counselled  compromise  bought 
Gotham  Court,  one  of  the  most  hopeless  slums  in 
the  Fourth  Ward,  for  nearly  $20,000.  It  was  not 
worth  so  many  cents.  The  Barracks  with  their 
awful  bal3y  death-rate  were  found  to  be  mortgaged 
to  a cemetery  corporation.  The  Board  of  Healtli 
gave  them  the  price  of  opening  one  grave  for  their 
share,  and  tore  down  the  rear  tenements.  A year 


350 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


or  two  later  I travelled  to  Europe  on  an  ocean  steamer 
with  the  treasurer  of  that  graveyard  concern.  We 
were  ten  days  on  the  way,  and  I am  afraid  he  did 
not  have  altogether  a good  time  of  it.  The  ghost 
of  the  Barracks  would  keep  rising  out  of  the  deep 
before  us,  sitting  there  in  our  steamer  chairs,  from 
whichever  quarter  the  wind  blew.  I suppose  he 
took  it  as  a victory  when  the  Court  of  Appeals  de- 
cided upon  a technicality  that  the  Barracks  should 
not  have  been  destroyed ; but  so  did  I,  for  they  were 
down  by  that  time.  The  city  could  afford  to  pay. 
We  were  paying  for  our  own  neglect,  and  it  was  a 
good  lesson. 

I have  said  more  than  once  in  these  pages  that  I 
am  not  good  at  figuring,  and  I am  not ; a child  could 
do  better.  For  that  very  reason  I am  going  to  claim 
full  credit  for  every  time  I do  a sum  right.  It  may 
not  happen  again.  Twice  during  that  spell,  curi- 
ously enough,  did  I downright  distinguish  myself  in 
that  line.  I shall  never  be  able  to  tell  you  how;  I 
only  know  that  I did  it.  Once  was  when  I went 
before  the  Board  of  Estimate  and  Apportionment  to 
oppose  an  increase  in  the  appropriation  for  the  Tombs 
which  the  Commissioner  of  Correction  had  asked 
for.  His  plea  was  that  there  had  been  a large  in- 
crease in  the  census  of  the  prison,  and  he  marched 
up  a column  of  figures  to  prove  it.  To  the  amaze- 
ment of  the  Board,  and  really,  if  the  truth  be  told. 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


351 


of  myself,  I demonstrated  clearly  from  his  own  fig- 
ures that  not  only  had  there  been  no  increase,  but 
that  there  could  not  be  without  criminally  over- 


Gotham  Court. 

crowding  the  wretched  old  prison,  in  which  already 
every  cell  had  two  inmates,  and  some  three.  Tlie 
exhibit  was  so  striking  that  the  Commissioner  and  his 
bookkeeper  retired  in  confusion.  It  was  just  the 


352 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


power  of  the  facts  again.  I wanted  to  have  the  hor- 
rid old  pile  torn  down,  and  had  been  sitting  up  nights 
acquainting  myself  with  all  that  concerned  it.  Now 
it  is  gone,  and  a good  riddance  to  it. 

The  other  computation  was  vastly  more  involved. 
It  concerned  the  schools,  about  which  no  one  knew 
anything  for  certain.  The  annual  reports  of  the 
Department  of  Education  were  models  of  how  to  say 
a thing  so  that  no  one  by  any  chance  could  under- 
stand what  it  was  about.  It  was  possible  to  prove 
from  them  that,  while  there  was  notoriously  a dearth 
of  school  accommodation,  while  children  knocked 
vainly  for  admission  and  the  Superintendent  clam- 
ored for  more  schools,  yet  there  were  ten  or  twenty 
thousand  seats  to  spare.  But  it  was  not  possible  to 
get  the  least  notion  from  them  of  what  the  real  need 
was.  I tried  for  many  months,  and  then  set  about 
finding  out  for  myself  how  many  children  who  ought 
to  be  in  school  were  drifting  about  the  streets.  The 
truant  officers,  professionally  discreet,  thought  about 
800.  The  Superintendent  of  Schools  guessed  at 
8000.  The  officers  of  the  Association  for  the 
Improvement  of  the  Condition  of  the  Poor,  with 
an  eye  on  the  tenements,  made  it  150,000.  I can- 
vassed a couple  of  wards  from  the  truant  officers’ 
reports,  and  Dr.  Tracy  compared  the  showing  with 
the  statistics  of  population.  From  the  result  I 
reasoned  that  there  must  be  about  50,000.  They 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


353 


scorned  me  at  the  City  Hall  for  it.  It  was  all  guess- 
work they  said,  and  so  it  was.  We  had  first  to 
have  a school  census,  and  we  got  one,  so  that  we 
might  know  where  we  were  at.  But  when  we  had 
the  result  of  that  first  census  before  us,  behold ! it 
showed  that  of  339,756  children  of  school  age  in  the 
city,  251,235  were  accounted  for  on  the  roster  of 
public  or  private  schools,  28,452  were  employed,  and 
50,069  on  the  street  or  at  home.  So  that,  if  I am 
not  smart  at  figuring,  I may  reasonably  claim  to  be 
a good  guesser. 

The  showing  that  a lack  of  schools  which  threw 
an  army  of  children  upon  the  street  went  hand  in 
hand  with  overcrowded  jails  made  us  get  up  and 
demand  that  something  be  done.  From  the  school 
executive  came  the  helpless  suggestion  that  the  thing 
might  be  mended  by  increasing  the  classes  in  neigh- 
borhoods where  there  were  not  enough  schools 
from  sixty  to  seventy-five.  Forty  or  forty-five  pupils 
is  held  to  be  the  safe  limit  anywhere.  But  the  time 
had  passed  for  such  pottering.  New  York  pulled 
itself  together  and  spent  millions  in  building  new 
schools  while  “ the  system  ” was  overhauled ; we 
dragged  in  a truant  school  by  threatening  the  city 
authorities  with  the  power  of  the  State  unless  they 
ceased  to  send  truants  to  institutions  that  received 
child  criminals.  But  a man  convinced  aerainst  his 

O 

will  is  of  the  same  opinion  still ; we  shall  have  to 


354 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


do  that  all  over  again  next.  My  pet  scheme  was  to 
have  trained  oculists  attached  to  the  public  schools, 
partly  as  a means  of  overcoming  stupidity  — half  of 
what  passes  for  that  in  the  children  is  really  the 
teacher’s  ; the  little  ones  are  near-sighted  ; they  can- 
not see  the  blackboard  — partly  also  that  they  might 
have  an  eye  on  the  school  buildings  and  help  us 
get  rid  of  some  where  they  had  to  burn  gas  all  day. 
That  was  upset  by  the  doctors,  who  were  afraid 
that  “ private  practice  would  be  interfered  with.” 
We  had  not  quite  got  to  the  millennium  yet.  It 
was  so  with  our  bill  to  establish  a farm  school  to 
win  back  young  vagrants  to  a useful  life.  It  was 
killed  at  Albany  with  the  challenge  that  we  “ had 
had  enough  of  reform  in  New  York.”  And  so  we 
had,  as  the  events  showed.  Tammany  came  back. 

But  not  to  stay.  We  had  secured  a hold  during 
those  three  years  which  I think  they  little  know  of. 
They  talk  at  the  Wigwam  of  the  “ school  vote,”  and 
mean  the  men  friends  and  kin  of  the  teachers  on 
whom  the  machine  has  a grip,  or  thinks  it  has ; 
but  there  is  another  school  vote  that  is  yet  to  be 
heard  from,  when  the  generation  that  has  had  its 
right  to  play  restored  to  it  comes  to  the  polls. 
That  was  the  great  gain  of  that  time.  It  was  the 
thing  I had  in  mind  back  of  and  beyond  all  the 
rest.  I was  bound  to  kill  the  Bend,  because  it  was 
bad.  I wanted  the  sunlight  in  there,  but  so  that  it 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


355 


might  shine  on  the  children  at  play.  That  is  a 
child’s  right,  and  it  is  not  to  be  cheated  of  it.  And 
when  it  is  cheated 
of  it,  it  is  not  the 
child  but  the  com- 
munity that  is 
robbed  of  that  be- 
side which  all  its 
wealth  is  but  tin- 
sel and  trash.  For 
men,  not  money, 
make  a country 
great,  and  joyless 
children  do  not 
make  good  men. 

So  when  the 
Legislature,  urged 
by  the  Tenement 
House  Commis- 
sion, made  it  law 
that  no  public 
school  should  ever 
again  be  built  in 
New  York  without 
an  outdoor  play- 
ground, it  touched  ^ Tenement  House  Air-shaft. 

the  quick.  Thereafter  it  was  easy  to  rescue  the  small 
parks  from  the  landscape  gardener  by  laying  them 


356  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

under  the  same  rule.  It  was  well  we  did  it,  too, 
for  he  is  a dangerous  customer,  hard  to  get  around. 
Twice  he  has  tried  to  steal  one  of  the  little  parks 
we  laid  out,  the  one  that  is  called  Seward  Park, 
from  the  children,  and  he  “ points  with  pride  ” al- 
most to  the  playground  in  the  other,  which  he  laid 
out  so  badly  that  it  was  a failure  from  the  start. 
However,  we  shall  convert  him  yet ; everything  in 
its  season. 

The  Board  of  Education  puzzled  over  its  end  of 
it  for  a while.  The  law  did  not  say  how  big  the 
playground  should  be,  and  there  was  no  precedent. 
No,  there  was  not.  I found  the  key  to  that  puzzle, 
at  least  one  that  fitted,  when  I was  Secretary  of  the 
Small  Parks  Committee.  It  was  my  last  act  as 
agent  of  the  Good  Government  clubs  to  persuade 
Major  Strong  to  appoint  that  committee.  It  made 
short  work  of  its  task.  We  sent  for  the  police  to 
tell  us  where  they  had  trouble  with  the  boys,  and 
why.  It  was  always  the  same  story : they  had  no 
other  place  to  play  in  than  the  street,  and  there 
they  broke  windows.  So  began  the  trouble.  It 
ended  in  the  police-station  and  the  jail.  The  city 
was  building  new  schools  by  the  score.  We  got  a 
list  of  the  sites,  and  as  we  expected,  they  were 
where  the  trouble  was  worst.  Naturally  so ; that 
was  where  the  children  were.  There,  then,  was  our 
field  as  a playground  committee.  Why  not  kill 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


357 


two  birds  with  one  stone,  and  save  money  by  mak- 
ing them  one  ? By  hitching  the  school  and  the 
boys’  play  together  we  should  speedily  get  rid  of 
the  truant.  He  was  just  there  as  a protest  against 
the  school  without  play. 

We  asked  the  Board  of  Education  to  make  their 
school  playgrounds  the  neighborhood  recreation 
centres.  So  they  would  not  need  to  worry  over 
how  big  they  should  be,  but  just  make  them  as 
big  as  they  could,  whether  on  the  roof  or  on  the 
ground.  They  listened,  but  found  difficulties  in 
“ the  property.”  Odd,  isn’t  it,  this  disposition  of 
the  world  to  forever  make  of  the  means  the  end, 
to  glorify  the  establishment ! It  was  the  same  story 
when  I asked  them  to  open  the  schools  at  night 
and  let  in  the  boys  to  have  their  clubs  there.  The 
saloon  was  bidding  for  them,  and  bidding  high,  but 
the  School  Board  hesitated  because  a window  might 
be  broken  or  a janitor  want  extra  pay  for  cleaning 
up.  Before  a reluctant  consent  was  given  I had  to 
make  a kind  of  promise  that  I would  not  appear 
before  the  Board  again  to  argue  for  throwing  the 
doors  wider  still.  But  it  isn’t  going  to  keep  me 
from  putting  in  the  heaviest  licks  I can,  in  the 
campaign  that  is  coming,  for  turning  the  schools 
over  to  the  people  bodily,  and  making  of  them  the 
neighborhood  centre  in  all  things  that  make  for 
good,  including  trades-union  meetings  and  political 


358 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


discussions.  Only  so  shall  we  make  of  our  schools 
real  corner-stones  of  our  liberties.  So,  also,  we 
shall  through  neighborhood  pride  restore  some  of 
the  neighborhood  feeling,  the  home  feeling  that  is 
now  lacking  in  our  cities  to  our  grievous  loss. 
Half  the  tenement-house  population  is  always  mov- 
ing, and  to  the  children  the  word  “ home  ” has  no 
meaning.  Anything  that  will  help  change  that  will 
be  a great  gain.  And  that  old  Board  is  gone  long 
since,  anyhow. 

The  club  prevailed  in  the  end.  At  least  one 
school  let  it  in,  and  though  tne  boys  did  break  a 
window-pane  that  winter  with  a ball,  they  paid  for 
it  like  men,  and  that  ghost  was  laid.  The  school 
playground  holds  aloof  yet  from  the  neighborhood 
except  in  the  long  vacation.  But  that  last  is  some- 
thing, and  the  rest  is  coming.  It  could  not  be  com- 
ing  by  any  better  Toad  than  the  vacation  schools, 
which  are  paving  the  way  for  common  sense  every- 
where. “ Everything  takes  ten  years,”  said  Abram 
S.  Hewitt,  when  he  took  his  seat  as  the  chairman 
of  the  Small  Parks  Committee.  Ten  years  before, 
when  he  was  Mayor,  he  had  put  through  the  law 
under  which  the  Mulberry  Bend  had  been  at  last 
wiped  out.  We  held  our  meetings  at  the  City  Hall, 
where  I had  been  spurned  so  often.  All  things 
come  to  those  who  wait  — and  fight  for  them.  Yes, 
fight!  I say  it  advisedly.  I have  come  to  the 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


359 


time  of  life  when  a man  does  not  lay  about  him 
with  a club  unless  he  has  to.  But — eternal  vigi- 
lance is  the  price  of  liberty!  To  be  vigilant  is  to 
sit  up  with  a club.  We,  as  a people,  have  provided 
in  the  republic  a means  of  fighting  for  our  rights 
and  getting  them,  and  it  is  our  business  to  do  it. 
We  shall  never  get  them  in  any  other  way.  Colo- 
nel Waring  was  a wise  man  as  well  as  a great  man. 
His  declaration  that  he  cleaned  the  streets  of  New 
York,  all  prophecies  to  the  contrary  notwithstand- 
ing, by  “putting  a man  instead  of  a voter  behind 
every  broom,”  deserves  to  be  put  on  the  monument 
we  shall  build  by  and  by  to  that  courageous  man, 
for  it  is  the  whole  gospel  of  municipal  righteousness 
in  a nutshell.  But  he  never  said  anything  better 
than  when  he  advised  his  fellow-citizens  to  fight, 
not  to  plead,  for  their  rights.  So  we  grow  the  kind 
of  citizenship  that  sets  the  world,  or  anyhow  our 
day,  ahead.  We  will  all  hail  the  day  when  we  shall 
be  able  to  lay  down  the  club.  But  until  it  comes  I 
do  not  see  that  we  have  any  choice  but  to  keep  a 
firm  grip  on  it. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


I TRY  TO  GO  TO  THE  WAR  FOR  THE  THIRD  AND  LAST 

TIME 

That  which  I have  described  as  “sitting  up  with 
a club”  in  a city  like  New  York  is  bound  to  win 
your  fight  if  you  sit  up  long  enough,  for  it  is  to  be 
remembered  that  the  politicians  who  oppose  good 
government  are  not  primarily  concerned  about  keep- 
ing you  out  of  your  rights.  They  want  the  things 
that  make  for  their  advantage  ; first  of  all  the  offices 
through  which  they  can  maintain  their  grip.  After 
that  they  will  concede  as  many  of  the  things  you 
want  as  they  have  to,  and  if  you  are  not  yourself 
out  for  the  offices,  more  than  otherwise,  though 
never  more  than  you  wring  out  of  them.  They 
really  do  not  care  if  you  do  have  clean  streets, 
good  schools,  parks,  playgrounds,  and  all  the  things 
which  make  for  good  citizenship  because  they  give 
the  best  part  of  the  man  a chance,  though  they 
grudge  them  as  a sad  waste  of  money  that  might 
be  turned  to  use  in  “ strengthening  the  organiza- 
tion,” which  is  the  sum  of  all  their  self-seeking, 
being  their  means  of  ever  getting  more  and  more. 

360 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


361 


Hence  it  is  that  a mere  handful  of  men  and  women 
who  rarely  or  never  had  other  authority  than  their 
own  unselfish  purpose,  have  in  all  times,  even  the 
worst,  been  able  to  put  their  stamp  upon  the  com- 
munity for  good.  I am  thinking  of  the  Felix 
Adlers,  the  Dr.  Rainsfords,  the  Josephine  Shaw 
Lowells,  the  Robert  Ross  Me  Burneys,  the  R.  Ful- 
ton Cuttings,  the  Father  Doyles,  the  Jacob  H. 
Schiffs,  the  Robert  W.  de  Forests,  the  Arthur  von 
Briesens,  the  F.  Norton  Goddards,  the  Richard  Wat- 
son Gilders,  and  their  kind ; and  thinking  of  them 
brings  to  mind  an  opportunity  I had  a year  or  two 
ago  to  tell  a club  of  workmen  what  I thought  of 
them.  It  was  at  the  Chicago  Commons.  I had 
looked  in  on  a Sunday  evening  upon  a group  of 
men  engaged  in  what  seemed  to  me  a singularly 
unprofitable  discussion  of  human  motives.  They 
were  of  the  school  which  professes  to  believe  that 
everything  proceeds  from  the  love  of  self,  and  they 
spoke  learnedly  of  the  ego  and  all  that ; but  as  I 
listened  the  conviction  grew,  along  with  the  feeling 
of  exasperation  that  sort  of  nonsense  always  arouses 
in  me,  that  they  were  just  vaporing,  and  I told 
them  so.  I pointed  to  these  men  and  women  I 
have  spoken  of,  some  of  them  of  great  wealth  — the 
thing  against  which  they  seemed  to  have  a special 
grudge  — and  told  them  how  they  had  given  their 
lives  and  their  means  in  the  cause  of  humanity 


362  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

without  asking  other  reward  than  that  of  seeing 
the  world  grow  better,  and  the  hard  lot  of  some  of 
their  fellow-men  eased  ; wherein  they  had  succeeded 
because  they  thought  less  of  themselves  than  of 
their  neighbors,  and  were  in  the  field,  anyway,  to 
be  of  such  use  as  they  could.  I told  them  how 
distressed  I was  that  upon  their  own  admission 
they  should  have  been  engaged  in  this  discussion 
four  years  without  getting  any  farther,  and  I closed 
with  a remorseful  feeling  of  having  said  more  than 
I intended  and  perhaps  having  made  them  feel  bad. 
But  not  they.  They  had  listened  to  me  throughout 
with  undisturbed  serenity.  When  I had  done,  the 
chairman  said  courteously  that  they  were  greatly 
indebted  to  me  for  my  frank  opinion.  Every  man 
was  entitled  to  his  own.  And  he  could  quite  sym- 
pathize with  me  in  my  inability  to  catch  their  point 
of  view. 

“ Because  here,”  he  added,  “ I have  been  reading 
for  ten  years  or  more  the  things  Mr.  Riis  writes  in 
his  newspaper  and  in  the  magazines,  and  by  which 
he  makes  a living,  and  for  the  life  of  me  I never 
was  able  to  understand  how  anv  one  could  be  found 
to  pay  for  such  stuff.” 

So  there  you  have  my  measure  as  a reformer. 
The  meeting  nodded  gravely.  I was  apparently 
the  only  one  there  who  took  it  as  a joke. 

I spoke  of  the  women’s  share  in  the  progress  we 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


363 


made.  A good  big  one  it  was.  We  should  have 
been  floundering  yet  in  the  educational  mud-puddle 
we  were  in,  had  it  not  been  for  the  women  of  New 
York  who  went  to  Albany  and  literally  held  up  the 
Legislature,  compelling  it  to  pass  our  reform  bill. 
And  not  once  but  a dozen  times,  during  Mayor 
Strong’s  administration,  when  they  had  wearied  of 
me  at  the  City  Hall  — I was  not  always  perso7ia 
grata  there  with  the  reform  administration  — did  I 
find  it  the  part  of  wisdom  to  send  committees  of 
women  instead  to  plead  with  the  Mayor  over  his 
five  o’clock  tea.  They  could  worm  a playground 
or  a small  park  out  of  him  when  I should  have 
met  with  a curt  refusal  and  a virtual  invitation  to 
be  gone.  In  his  political  doldrums  the  Mayor  did 
not  have  a kindly  eye  to  reformers ; but  he  was  not 
always  able  to  make  them  out  in  petticoats. 

The  women  prevailed  at  Albany  by  the  power 
of  fact.  They  knew,  and  the  legislators  did  not. 
They  received  them  up  there  with  an  indulgent 
smile,  but  it  became  speedily  apparent  that  they 
came  bristling  with  information  about  the  schools 
to  which  the  empty  old  Tammany  boast  that  New 
York  “had  the  best  schools  in  the  world”  was  not 
an  effective  answer.  In  fact  they  came  nearer 
being  the  worst.  I had  myself  had  an  experience 
of  that  kind,  when  I pointed  out  in  print  that  an 
East  Side  school  was  so  overrun  with  rats  that  it 


364 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


was  difficult  to  hear  oneself  think  for  their  squeak- 
ing in  the  dark  “playground,”  when  the  children 
were  upstairs  in  their  classes.  The  Board  of  Esti- 
mate and  Apportionment,  which  comprises  the  im- 
portant officials  of  the  city  Government  with  the 
Mayor  as  presiding  officer,  took  umbrage  at  the 
statement,  and  said  in  plain  words  that  I lied  and 
that  there  were  no  rats.  That  was  a piece  of  un- 
thinking ignorance,  for  an  old  schoolhouse  without 
rats  in  it  would  be  a rare  thing  anywhere ; but  it 
was  impertinence,  too,  of  a kind  of  which  I had 
had  so  much  from  the  City  Hall  that  I decided  the 
time  had  come  for  a demonstration.  I got  me  a 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


365 


rat  trap,  and  prepared  to  catch  one  and  have  it  sent 
in  to  the  Board,  duly  authenticated  by  affidavit  as 
hailing  from  Allen  Street;  but  before  I could  carry 
out  my  purpose  the  bottom  fell  out  of  the  Tam- 
many conspiracy  of  ignorance  and  fraud  and  left 
us  the  way  clear  for  three  years.  So  I saved  my 
rat  for  another  time. 

This  “fact,”  which  was  naturally  my  own  weapon, 
the  contribution  I was  able  to  make  from  my  own 
profession  and  training,  was  in  reality  a tremen- 
dously effective  club  before  which  nothing  could  or 
can  stand  in  the  long  run.  If  I can  leave  that  con- 
viction as  a legacy  to  my  brother  reporters,  I shall 
feel  that  I have  really  performed  a service.  I 
believe  they  do  not  half  understand  it,  or  they 
would  waste  no  printers  ink  idly.  The  school 
war  was  an  illustration  of  it,  all  through.  I was 
at  Police  Headquarters,  where  I saw  the  East  Side, 
that  had  been  orderly,  becoming  thievish  and  im- 
moral. Going  to  the  schools,  I found  them  over- 
crowded, ill  ventilated,  dark,  without  playgrounds, 
repellent.  Following  up  the  boys,  who  escaped 
from  them  in  disgust  — if  indeed  they  were  not 
barred  out ; the  street  swarmed  with  children  for 
whom  there  was  not  room  — I saw  them  herded 
at  the  prison  to  which  Protestant  truants  were  sent, 
with  burglars,  vagrants,  thieves,  and  “ bad  boys  ’ 
of  every  kind.  They  classified  them  according  to 


366  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

size:  four  feet,  four  feet  seven,  and  over  four  feet 
seven ! No  other  way  was  attempted.  At  the 
Catholic  prison  they  did  not  even  do  that.  They 
kept  them  on  a “ footing  of  social  equality  ” by 
mixing  them  all  up  together;  and  when  in  amaze- 
ment I asked  if  that  was  doing  right  by  the  truant 
who  might  be  reasonably  supposed  to  be  in  special 
danger  from  such  contact,  the  answer  I got  was 
“ would  it  be  fair  to  the  burglar  to  set  him  apart 
with  the  stamp  on  him } ” I went  back  to  the 
office  and  took  from  the  Rogues’  Gallery  a hand- 
ful of  photographs  of  boy  thieves  and  murderers 
and  printed  them  in  the  Ceiitury  Magazine  with 
a statement  of  the  facts,  under  the  heading,  “ The 
Making  of  Thieves  in  New  York.”  I quote  the 
concluding  sentence  of  that  article  because  it  seemed 
to  me  then,  and  it  seems  to  me  now,  that  there  was 
no  getting  away  from  its  awful  arraignment:  — 

“ While  we  are  asking  at  this  end  of  the  line  if 
it  would  be  quite  fair  to  the  burglar  to  shut  him 
off  from  social  intercourse  with  his  betters,  the 
State  Reformatory,  where  the  final  product  of  our 
schools  of  crime  is  garnered,  supplies  the  answer 
year  after  year,  unheeded.  Of  the  thousands  who 
land  there,  barely  one  per  cent  kept  good  company 
before  coming.  All  the  rest  were  the  victims  of 
evil  association,  of  corrupt  environment.  They 
were  not  thieves  by  heredity ; they  were  made. 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME  367 

And  the  manufacture  goes  on  every  day.  The 
street  and  the  jail  are  the  factories.” 

Upon  the  lay  mind  the  argument  took  hold ; that 
of  the  official  educator  resisted  it  stubbornly  for  a 
season.  Two  years  later,  when  one  of  the  School 
Commissioners  spoke  indulgently  of  the  burglars 
and  highway  robbers  in  the  two  prisons  as  probably 
guilty  merely  of  “ the  theft  of  a top,  or  a marble,  or 
maybe  a banana,”  in  extenuation  of  the  continued 
policy  of  his  department  in  sending  truants  there 
in  flat  defiance  of  the  State  law  that  forbade  the 
mingling  of  thieves  and  truants,  the  police  office 
had  once  more  to  be  invoked  with  its  testimony. 
I had  been  keeping  records  of  the  child  crimes  that 
came  up  in  the  course  of  my  work  that  year.  They 
began  before  the  kindergarten  age  with  burglary 
and  till-tapping.  “ Highwaymen  ” at  six  sounds 
rather  formidable,  but  there  was  no  other  name 
for  it.  Two  lads  of  that  age  had  held  up  a third 
and  robbed  him  in  the  street ; at  seven  and  eight 
there  were  seven  housebreakers  and  two  common 
thieves;  at  ten  I had  a burglar,  one  boy  and  four 
girl  thieves,  two  charged  with  assault  and  one  with 
forgery ; at  eleven  four  burglars,  two  thieves  with  a 
record,  two  charged  with  assault,  a highway  robber, 
an  habitual  liar,  and  a suicide ; at  twelve  five  burg- 
lars, three  thieves,  two  “drunks,”  three  incendiaries, 
three  arrested  for  assault,  and  two  suicides ; at 


368  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

thirteen  five  burglars,  one  with  a record,  five  thieves, 
five  charged  with  assault,  one  “drunk,”  one  forger; 
at  fourteen  four  burglars,  seven  thieves,  one  drunk 
enough  to  fight  a policeman,  six  highway  robbers, 
and  ten  charged  with  assault.  And  so  on.  The 
street  had  borne  its  perfect  crop,  and  they  were 
behind  the  bars  every  one,  locked  in  with  the  boys 
who  had  done  nothing  worse  than  play  hooky. 

It  was  a knock-out  blow.  Classification  by  meas- 
urement had  ceased  at  the  first  broadside ; the  last 
gave  us  the  truant  school  which  the  law  demanded. 
To  make  the  most  of  it,  we  shall  apparently  have 
to  have  a new  deal.  I tried  to  persuade  the  Chil- 
dren’s Aid  Society  to  turn  its  old  machinery  to  this 
new  work.  Perhaps  the  George  Junior  Republic 
would  do  better  still.  When  there  is  room  for 
every  boy  on  the  school  bench,  and  room  to  toss 
a ball  when  he  is  off  it,  there  will  not  be  much 
left  of  that  problem  to  wrestle  with ; but  little  or 
much,  the  peril  of  the  prison  is  too  great  to  be 
endured  for  a moment. 

It  must  have  been  about  that  time  that  I received 
a letter  from  an  old  friend  who  was  in  high  glee 
over  a statement  in  some  magazine  that  I had 
evolved  a “ scientific  theory  ” as  to  why  boys  go 
to  the  bad  in  cities.  It  was  plain  that  he  was  as 
much  surprised  as  he  was  pleased,  and  so  was  I 
when  I heard  what  it  was  all  about.  That  which 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


369 


they  had  pitched  upon  as  science  and  theory  was 
the  baldest  recital  of  the  facts  as  seen  from  Mul- 
berry Street.  Beyond  putting  two  and  two  to- 
gether, there  was  very  little  reasoning  about  it. 
That  such  conditions  as 
were  all  about  us  should 
result  in  making  “ toughs  ” 
of  the  boys  was  not 
strange.  Rather,  it  would 
have  been  strange  had 
anything  else  come  of  it. 

With  the  home  cor- 
rupted by  the  tenement ; 
the  school  doors  closed 
against  them  where  the 
swarms  were  densest,  and 
the  children  thrown  upon 
the  street,  there  to  take 
their  chance  ; with  honest  play  interdicted,  every 
natural  right  of  the  child  turned  into  a means  of 
oppression,  a game  of  ball  become  a crime  for 
which  children  were  thrust  into  jail,  indeed,  shot 
down  like  dangerous  criminals  when  running  away 
from  the  policeman  who  pursued  them ; ^ with  dead- 
letter  laws  on  every  hand  breeding  blackmail  and 
bringing  the  police  and  authority  into  disrepute  ; 

^ Such  a case  occurred  on  Thanksgiving  Day,  1897.  A great  public 
clamor  arose  and  the  policeman  was  sent  to  Sing  Sing. 


370 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


with  the  lawlessness  of  the  street  added  to  want 
of  rule  at  home,  where  the  immigrant  father  looked 
on  helpless,  himself  dependent  in  the  strange  sur- 
roundings upon  the  boy  and  no  longer  his  master 
— it  seemed  as  if  we  had  set  out  to  deliberately 
make  the  trouble  under  which  we  groaned.  And 
we  were  not  alone  in  it.  The  shoe  fits  every  large 
city  more  or  less  snugly.  I know,  for  I have  had 
a good  deal  to  do  with  fitting  it  on  the  last  two  or 
three  years ; and  often,  when  looking  my  audience 
over  in  lecturing  about  Tony  and  his  hardships,  I 
am  thinking  about  Mulberry  Street  and  the  old 
days  when  problems,  civic  or  otherwise,  were  far- 
thest from  my  mind  in  digging  out  the  facts  that 
lay  ready  to  the  hand  of  the  police  reporter. 

In  him  as  a reporter  there  may  be  no  special  vir- 
tue ; but  there  is  that  in  his  work,  in  the  haste  and 
the  directness  of  it,  which  compels  him  always  to 
take  the  short  cut  and  keeps  it  clear  of  crankery  of 
every  kind.  The  “ isms  ” have  no  place  in  a news- 
paper office,  certainly  not  in  Mulberry  Street.  I 
confess  I was  rather  glad  of  it.  I had  no  stomach 
for  abstract  discussions  of  social  wrongs ; I wanted 
to  right  those  of  them  that  I could  reach.  I wanted 
to  tear  down  the  Mulberry  Bend  and  let  in  the  light 
so  that  we  might  the  more  readily  make  them  out ; 
the  others  could  do  the  rest  then.  I used  to  say  that 
to  a very  destructive  crank  who  would  have  nothing 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


371 


less,  upon  any  account,  than  the  whole  loaf.  My 
“ remedies  ” were  an  abomination  to  him.  The  land- 
lords should  be  boiled  in  oil  to  a man  ; hanging  was 
too  good  for  them.  Now  he  is  a Tammany  office- 
holder in  a position  where  propping  up  landlord 
greed  is  his  daily  practice  and  privilege,  and  he 
thrives  upon  it.  But  I ought  not  to  blame  him.  It 
is  precisely  because  of  his  kind  that  Tammany  is 
defenceless  against  real  reform.  It  never  can  make 
it  out.  That  every  man  has  his  price  is  the  language 
of  Fourteenth  Street.  They  have  no  dictionary  there 
to  enable  them  to  understand  any  other;  and  as  a 
short  cut  out  of  it  they  deny  that  there  is  any  other. 

It  helped  me  vastly  that  my  associations  in  the 
office  were  most  congenial.  I have  not  often  been 
in  accord  with  the  editorial  page  of  my  own  paper, 
the  Sun,  It  seemed  as  if  it  were  impossible  for  any- 
body to  get  farther  apart  in  their  views  of  most  things 
on  the  earth  and  off  it  than  were  my  paper  and  I. 
It  hated  and  persecuted  Beecher  and  Cleveland ; 
they  were  my  heroes.  It  converted  me  to  Grant 
by  its  opposition  to  him.  The  sign  “ Keep  off  the 
grass  ! ” arouses  in  its  editorial  breast  no  desire  to 
lock  up  the  man  who  planted  it ; it  does  in  mine. 
Ten  years  and  more  I have  striven  in  its  columns  to 
make  the  tenement  out  a chief  device  of  the  devil, 
and  it  must  be  that  I have  brought  some  over  to  my 
belief ; but  I have  not  converted  the  Sun.  So  that 


372 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


on  the  principle  which  I laid  down  before  that  I 
must  be  always  fighting  with  my  friends,  I ought  to 
have  had  a mighty  good  time  of  it  there.  And  so  in 
fact  I did.  They  let  me  have  in  pretty  nearly  every- 
thing my  own  way,  though  it  led  us  so  far  apart. 
As  time  passed  and  the  duties  that  came  to  me  took 
more  and  more  of  my  time  from  my  office  work,  I 
found  that  end  of  it  insensibly  lightened  to  allow  me 
to  pursue  the  things  I believed  in,  though  they  did 
not.  No  doubt  the  old  friendship  that  existed  be- 
tween my  immediate  chief  on  the  Eventing  Sun^ 
William  McCloy,  and  myself,  bore  a hand  in  this. 
Yet  it  could  not  have  gone  on  without  the  assent 
and  virtual  sympathy  of  the  Danas,  father  and  son ; 
for  we  came  now  and  then  to  a point  where  opposite 
views  clashed  and  proved  irreconcilable.  Then  I 
found  these  men,  whom  some  deemed  cynical,  most 
ready  to  see  the  facts  as  they  were,  and  to  see  justice 
done. 

I like  to  think  of  my  last  meeting  with  Charles  A. 
Dana,  the  “ Old  Chief,”  as  he  was  always  called  in 
the  office.  In  all  the  years  I was  on  the  Smt  I do 
not  think  I had  spoken  with  him  a half  dozen  times. 
When  he  wanted  anything  of  me  personally,  his 
orders  were  very  brief  and  to  the  point.  It  was  gen- 
erally something  — a report  to  be  digested  or  the 
story  of  some  social  experiment  — which  showed  me 
that  in  his  heart  he  was  faithful  to  his  early  love ; 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


373 


he  had  been  in  his  youth,  as  everybody  knows,  an 
enthusiastic  reformer,  a member  of  the  Brook  Farm 
Community.  But  if  he  thought  I saw,  he  let  no 
sign  escape  him.  He  hated  shams ; perhaps  I was 
on  trial  all  the  time.  If  so,  I believe  that  he  meant 
to  tell  me  in  that  last  hand-shake  that  he  had  not 
found  me  wanting.  It  was  on  the  stairs  in  the 
Sim  office  that  we  met.  I was  going  up ; he  was 
coming  down  — going  home  to  die.  He  knew  it. 
In  me  there  was  no  suspicion  of  the  truth  when 
I came  upon  him  at  the  turn  of  the  stairs,  stum- 
bling along  in  a way  very  unlike  the  usual  springy 
step  of  the  Old  Chief.  I hardly  knew  him  when 
he  passed,  but  as  he  turned  and  held  out  his  hand 
I saw  that  it  was  Mr.  Dana,  looking  somehow  older 
than  I had  ever  seen  him,  and  changed.  I took  off 
my  hat  and  we  shook  hands. 

“ Well,”  he  said,  “ have  you  reformed  everything 
to  suit  you,  straightened  out  every  kink  in  town } ” 

“ Pretty  nearly,”  I said,  falling  into  his  tone  of 
banter;  “all  except  the  Sun  office.  That  is  left 
yet,  and  as  bad  as  ever.” 

“Ha!”  he  laughed,  “you  come  on!  We  are 
ready  for  you.  Come  right  along ! ” And  with 
another  hearty  hand-shake  he  was  gone.  He  never 
saw  the  Sun  office  as^ain. 

It  was  the  only  time  he  had  ever  held  out  his 
hand  to  me,  after  that  first  meeting  of  ours  when 


374 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


I was  a lonely  lad,  nearly  thirty  years  before.  That 
time  there  was  a dollar  in  it  and  I spurned  it. 
This  time  I like  to  believe  his  heart  was  in  it. 
And  I took  it  gladly  and  gratefully. 

The  police  helped  — sometimes.  More  fre- 
quently we  were  at  odds,  and  few  enough  in  the 
rank  and  file  understood  that  I was  fighting  for 
them  in  fighting  the  department.  A friend  came 
into  my  office,  laughing,  one  day,  and  told  me  that 
he  had  just  overheard  the  doorman  at  Police  Head- 
quarters say,  as  he  saw  me  pass : — 

“ Ugh ! the  hypocrite ! See  him  take  off  his  hat 
and  then  lay  us  out  cold  in  his  paper  when  he  gets 
the  chance.” 

He  referred  to  my  old-country  habit  of  raising 
the  hat  in  salutation  instead  of  merely  nodding  or 
touching  the  brim.  No  doubt  he  expressed  a feel- 
ing that  was  quite  general  at  the  time.  But  after 
Mulberry  Street  had  taken  notice  of  Roosevelt’s 
friendship  for  me  there  was  a change,  and  then  it 
went  to  the  other  extreme.  It  never  quite  got  over 
the  fact  that  he  did  not  “ ring  me  in  ” on  President 
McKinley  and  the  Government,  or  at  least  make 
me  his  private  secretary  and  deputy  boss  of  the 
Empire  State  while  he  was  Governor.  The  Mul- 
berry Street  idea  of  friendship  includes  the  loaves 
and  fishes  first  and  last,  and  “pull”  is  the  Joss  it 
worships.  In  fact  I had  several  times  to  explain 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


375 


that  Mr.  Roosevelt  had  not  “gone  back  on  me” 
to  save  his  political  reputation.  When  at  a public 
meeting  he  once  spoke  of  me  as  his  friend,  a 
dozen  policemen  brought  me  copies  of  the  paper 
containing  “ the  notice,”  with  a frankly  expressed 
wish  to  be  remembered  when  I came  into  my  own. 
About  that  time,  being  in  the  neighborhood,  I 
strayed  into  the  Bend  one  day  to^'enjoy  the  sun- 
light there  and  the  children  sporting  in  it.  At  the 
curb  stood  a big  policeman  leisurely  peeling  an 
orange,  to  which  he  had  helped  himself  from  a 
cringing  Italian’s  cart.  I asked  him  how  were 
things  in  the  Bend  since  the  park  had  come.  He 
eyed  me  very  coldly,  and  said,  “ Bad,  very  bad.” 
At  that  I expressed  my  astonishment,  saying  that 
I was  a reporter  at  Police  Headquarters  and  had 
understood  differently. 

“What  paper?”  he  grunted  insolently.  I told 
him.  He  bestowed  a look  of  mingled  pity  and 
contempt  upon  me. 

“ Nix  ! mine  friend,”  he  said,  spreading  his  feet 
farther  apart  and  tossing  the  peel  at  the  Italian, 
who  grinned  with  delight  at  such  condescension.  I 
regarded  him  expectantly.  He  was  a vei*y  aggra- 
vating chap. 

“ Did  you  say  you  were  at  Police  Headquarters  — 
for  the  Sun  ? ” he  observed  at  length. 

“ Yes  ! ” He  shook  his  head. 


3/6 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


“ Nixie  ! not  guilty  ! ” he  said  tauntingly. 

“ Why,  what  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ Haven’t  you  heard  of  Mr.  Riis,  Jacob  Riis?  ” 

I said  I had. 

“ The  Governor’s  friend  ? ” 

“ Yes ; what  of  it  ? ” 

“ Well,  ain’t  he  at  Headquarters  for  the  Sun  ? ” 

I said  that  was  so. 

“ Well?  ”^ 

I took  out  my  card  and  handed  it  to  him.  “ I 
am  that  man,”  I said. 

For  a fraction  of  a second  the  policeman’s  jaw 
dropped;  but  he  was  a thoroughbred.  His  heels 
came,  together  before,  as  it  seemed,  he  could  have 
read  my  name  ; he  straightened  up.  The  half-peeled 
orange  fell  from  his  hand  and  rolled  into  the  gutter, 
covertly  speeded  by  a dextrous  little  kick.  The 
unhappy  Italian,  believing  it  a mishap,  made  haste 
to  select  the  biggest  and  juiciest  fruit  on  his  stand, 
and  held  it  out  with  a propitiatory  bow,  but  he 
spurned  him  haughtily  away. 

“ These  dagoes,”  he  said,  elaborately  placing  my 
card  in  the  sweat-band  of  his  hat,  “ain’t  got  no  man- 
ners. It’s  a hard  place  for  a good  man  down  here. 
It’s  time  I was  a roundsman.  You  can  do  it. 
You’ve  got  de  ‘pull.’” 

When  Roosevelt  had  gone  to  Washington  to 
help  fit  out  the  navy  for  the  war  with  Spain,  I spent 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


377 


a part  of  the  winter  there  with  him,  and  Mulberry 
Street  took  it  for  granted  that  I had  at  last  been 
“ placed  ” as  I should  have  been  long  before.  There 
was  great  amazement  when  I came  back  to  take  my 
old  place.  The  truth  was  that  I had  gone  partly  to 
observe  what  went  on  at  the  capital  for  my  paper, 
and  partly  to  speed  on  the  war,  in  which  I was  a 
hearty  believer  from  the  first.  It  was  to  me  a 
means,  first  and  last,  of  ending  the  murder  in  Cuba. 
One  of  the  very  earliest  things  I had  to  do  with  as 
a reporter  was  the  Virginius  massacre,  and  ever 
since  it  had  been  bloodshed  right  along.  It  was 
time  to  stop  it,  and  the  only  way  seemed  to  wrest 
the  grip  of  Spain  from  the  throat  of  the  island.  I 
think  I never  quite  got  over  the  contempt  I con- 
ceived for  Spain  and  Spanish  ways  when  I read  as 
a boy,  in  Hans  Christian  Andersen’s  account  of  his 
travels  in  the  country  of  the  Dons,  that  the  shep- 
herds brought  butter  from  the  mountains  in  sheep’s 
intestines  and  measured  them  off  in  lengths  de- 
manded by  the  customers  by  tying  knots  upon 
them.  What  was  to  be  expected  from  a country 
that  sold  butter  by  the  yard  ? As  the  event  showed, 
it  ran  its  navies  after  the  same  fashion  and  was 
justly  punished.  I made  friends  that  winter  with 
Dr.  Leonard  Wood,  whom  we  all  came  to  know  and 
admire  afterwards  as  General  and  Governor  Wood  ; 
and  a fine  fellow  he  was.  He  was  Roosevelt’s 


378 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


friend  and  physician,  and  we  spent  many  strenuous 
hours  together,  being  in  that  mood. 

For  the  third  time  in  my  life,  and  the  last,  I 
wanted  to  go  to  the  war,  when  they  went,  and  oh ! 
so  badly.  Not  to  fight, — I had  had  all  I needed  of 
that  at  home,  — but  to  tell  the  truth  about  what  was 
going  on  in  Cuba.  The  Outlook  offered  me  that 
post,  and  the  Sun  agreed  heartily ; but  once  more 
the  door  was  barred  against  me.  Two  of  my  chil- 
dren had  scarlet  fever,  my  oldest  son  had  gone  to 
Washington  trying  to  enlist  with  the  Rough  Riders, 
and  the  one  next  in  line  was  engineering  to  get  into 
the  navy  on  his  own  hook.  My  wife  raised  no 
objection  to  my  going,  if  it  was  duty;  but  her  tears 
fell  silently  — and  I stayed.  It  was  “three  times 
and  out.”  I shall  never  go  to  the  war  now  unless 
in  defence  of  my  own  home,  which  may  God  forbid. 
Within  a year  I knew  that,  had  I gone  then,  I should 
most  likely  not  have  returned.  I had  received  notice 
that  to  my  dreams  of  campaigning  in  that  way  there 
was  an  end.  Thankful  that  I had  been  spared,  I 
yet  took  leave  of  them  with  a sigh ; most  illogically, 
for  I hate  the  sight  of  human  suffering  and  of  brutal 
passions  aroused.  But  deep  down  in  my  heart  there 
is  the  horror  of  my  Viking  forefathers  of  dying  in 
bed,  unable  to  strike  back,  as  it  were.  I know  it  is 
wicked  and  foolish,  but  all  my  life  I have  so  wished 
to  get  on  a horse  with  a sword,  and  slam  in  just 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


379 


once,  like  another  Sheridan.  I,  who  cannot  sit  on  a 
horse  ! Even  the  one  Roosevelt  got  me  at  Montauk 
that  was  warranted  “ not  to  bite  or  scratch  ” ran 
away  with  me.  So  it  is  foolishness,  plain  to  see. 
Yet,  so  I might  have  found  out  which  way  I would 
really  have  run  when  the  call  came.  I do  hope  the 
right  way,  but  I never  have  felt  quite  sure. 

The  casualties  of  war  are  not  all  on  the  battle- 
field. The  Cuban  campaign  wrecked  a promising 
career  as  a foreign  correspondent  which  I had  been 
building  up  for  some  ten  or  fifteen  years  with  toilsome 
effort.  It  was  for  a Danish  newspaper  I wrote  with 
much  approval,  but  when  the  war  came,  they  did  not 
take  the  same  view  of  things  that  I did,  and  fell  to 
suppressing  or  mutilating  my  letters,  whereupon  our 
connection  ceased  abruptly.  My  letters  were,  ex- 
plained the  editor  to  me  a year  or  two  later  when  I 
saw  him  in  Copenhagen,  so  — er-r  — ultra-patriotic, 
so  — er-r  — youthful  in  their  enthusiasm,  that  — 
huh  ! I interrupted  him  with  the  remark  that  I was 
glad  we  were  young  enough  yet  in  my  country  to 
get  up  and  shout  for  the  flag  in  a fight,  and  left  him 
to  think  it  over.  They  must  have  aged  suddenly 
over  there,  for  they  were  not  that  way  when  I was  a 
boy.  The  real  fact  was  that  somehow  they  could 
not  get  it  into  their  heads  that  a European  bully 
could  be  whipped  in  one  round  by  “the  States.” 
They  insisted  on  printing  ridiculous  despatches 


38o  the  making  of  an  AMERICAN 

about  Spanish  victories.  I think  there  was  some- 
thing about  codfish,  too,  something  commercial 
about  corks  and  codfish — Iceland  keeping  Spain 
on  a fish  diet  in  Lent,  in  return  for  which  she  corked 
the  Danish  beer — I have  forgotten  the  particulars. 
The  bottom  fact  was  a distrust  of  the  United  States 
that  was  based  upon  a curiously  stubborn  ignorance, 
entirely  without  excuse  in  a people  of  high  intel- 
ligence like  the  Danes.  I tried  hard  as  a corre- 
spondent to  draw  a reasonable,  human  picture  of 
American  affairs,  but  it  seemed  to  make  no  im- 
pression. They  would  jump  at  the  Munchausen 
stories  that  are  always  afloat,  as  if  America  were 
some  sort  of  menagerie  and  not  a Christian  country. 
I think  nothing  ever  aggravated  me  as  did  an  instance 
of  that  kind  the  year  Ben  Butler  ran  for  the  Presi- 
dency. I had  been  trying  in  my  letters  to  present 
the  political  situation  and  issues  fairly,  and  was 
beginning  to  feel  that  they  must  understand,  when 
I received  a copy  of  my  paper  from  Copenhagen  and 
read  there  a “ life  ” of  General  Butler,  which  con- 
densed, ran  something  like  this  : — 

“ Mr.  Butler  was  an  ambitious  young  lawyer, 
shrewd  and  full  of  bold  schemes  for  enriching  him- 
self. When  the  war  with  the  South  broke  out,  he 
raised  all  the  money  he  could  and  fitted  out  a fleet 
of  privateers.  With  this  he  sailed  for  New  Orleans, 
captured  the  city,  and,  collecting  all  the  silver  spoons 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


381 


it  contained,  freighted  his  vessels  with  them,  and 
returned  to  the  North.  Thus  he  laid  the  founda- 
tion for  his  great  fortune,  but  achieved  lasting  un- 
popularity in  the  South,  which  will  prevent  his 
election  to  the  Presidency.” 

I am  not  joking.  That  was  how  the  story  of  the 
silver  spoons  looked  in  Danish  a quarter  of  a cen- 
tury after  the  war.  Really,  now,  what  would  you 
have  done  ? I laughed  and  — well ! made  remarks 
by  turns,  and  in  the  end  concluded  that  there  was 
nothing  else  that  could  be  done  except  buckle  to 
and  try  again ; which  I did. 

If  I could  not  go  to  the  war,  I could  at  least  go 
electioneering  with  Roosevelt  when  he  came  back 
and  try  to  help  him  out  the  best  I knew  how  in 
matters  that  touched  the  poor  and  their  life,  once 
he  sat  in  Cleveland’s  chair  in  Albany.  I do  not 
think  he  felt  that  as  an  added  dignity,  but  I did 
and  I told  him  so,  whereat  he  used  to  laugh  a little. 
But  there  was  nothing  to  laugh  at.  They  are  men 
of  the  same  stamp,  not  saints  any  more  than  the 
rest  of  us,  but  men  with  minds  and  honest  wills,  if 
they  have  different  ways  of  doing  things.  I wish 
some  Cleveland  would  come  along  again  soon  and 
give  me  another  chance  to  vote  the  ticket  which 
Tammany  obstructs  with  its  impudent  claim  that  it 
is  the  Democratic  party.  As  for  Roosevelt,  few  were 
nearer  to  him,  I fancy,  than  I,  even  at  Albany.  No 


382  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

doubt  he  made  his  mistakes  like  the  rest  of  us,  and 
when  he  did  there  were  not  wanting  critics  to  make 
the  most  of  it.  I wish  they  had  been  half  as  ready 
to  lend  him  a hand.  We  might  have  been  farther 
on  the  road  then.  I saw  how  faithfully  he  labored. 
I was  his  umpire  with  the  tailors,  with  the  drug 
clerks,  in  the  enforcement  of  the  Factory  Law 
against  sweaters,  and  I know  that  early  and  late  he 
had  no  other  thought  than  how  best  to  serve  the 
people  who  trusted  him.  I want  no  better  Gov- 
ernor than  that,  and  I guess  we  shall  want  him  a 
long  time  before  we  get  one  as  good. 

I found  out  upon  our  electioneering  tours  that 
I was  not  a good  stump-speaker,  especially  on  the 
wing  with  five-minute  stops  of  the  train.  It  used 
to  pull  out  with  me  inwardly  raging,  all  the  good 
things  I meant  to  say  unsaid.  The  politicians  knew 
that  trick  better,  and  I left  the  field  to  them  speed- 
ily. Thereafter  I went  along  just  for  company. 
Only  two  or  three  times  did  I rise  to  the  occasion. 
Once  when  I spoke  in  the  square  at  Jamestown, 
N.Y.,  where  I had  worked  as  a young  lad  and 
trapped  muskrats  in  the  creek  for  a living.  The 
old  days  came  back  to  me  as  I looked  upon  that 
mighty  throng,  and  the  cheers  that  arose  from  it 
told  me  that  I had  “ caught  on.”  I was  wondering 
whether  by  any  chance  the  old  ship  captain  who 
finished  me  as  a lecturer  once  was  in  it,  but  he 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


383 


was  not ; he  was  dead.  Another  time  was  in  Flush- 
ing, Long  Island.  There  was  not  room  in  the  hall, 
and  they  sent  me  out  to  talk  to  the  crowd  in  the 
street.  The  sight  of  it,  with  the  flickering  torch- 
light upon  the  sea  of  upturned  faces,  took  me  some- 
how as  nothing  ever  had,  and  the  speech  I made 
from  the  steps,  propped  up  by  two  policemen,  took 
the  crowd,  too;  it  cheered  so  that  Roosevelt  within 
stopped  and  thought  some  enemy  had  captured  the 
meeting.  When  he  was  gone,  with  the  spirit  still 
upon  me  I talked  to  the  meeting  in  the  hall  till 
it  rose  and  shouted.  My  political  pet  enemy  from 
Richmond  Hill  was  on  the  platform  and  came  over 
to  embrace  me.  W e have  been  friends  since.  The 
memory  of  that  evening  lingers  yet  in  Flushing,  I 
am  told. 

A picture  from  that  day’s  trip  through  Long 
Island  will  ever  abide  on  my  mind.  The  train  was 
about  to  pull  out  from  the  station  in  Greenport, 
when  the  public  school  children  came  swarming 
down  to  see  “Teddy.”  He  leaned  out  from  the 
rear  platform,  grasping  as  many  of  the  little  hands 
as  he  could,  while  the  train  hands  did  their  best  to 
keep  the  track  clear.  Way  back  in  the  jostling, 
cheering  crowd  I made  out  the  slim  figure  of  a pale, 
freckled  little  girl  in  a worn  garment,  struggling 
eagerly  but  hopelessly  to  get  near  him.  The 
stronger  children  pushed  her  farther  back,  and  her 


3^4 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


mournful  face  was  nearly  the  last  of  them  all  when 
Roosevelt  saw  her.  Going  down  the  steps  even  as 
the  train  started,  he  made  a quick  dash,  clearing  a 
path  through  the  surging  tide  to  the  little  girl,  and 
taking  her  hand,  gave  it  the  heartiest  shake  of  all, 
then  sprinted  for  the  departing  car  and  caught  it. 
The  last  I saw  of  Greenport  was  the  poor  little  girl 
holding  tight  the  hand  her  hero  had  shaken,  with 
her  face  all  one  sunbeam  of  joy. 

I know  just  how  she  felt,  for  I have  had  the  same 
experience.  One  of  the  things  I remember  with  a 
pleasure  which  the  years  have  no  power  to  dim  is 
my  meeting  with  Cardinal  Gibbons  some  years  ago. 
They  had  asked  me  to  come  to  Baltimore  to  speak 
for  the  Fresh  Air  Fund,  and  to  my  great  delight  I 
found  that  the  Cardinal  was  to  preside.  I had 
always  admired  him  at  a distance,  but  during  the 
fifteen  minutes’  talk  we  had  before  the  lecture  he 
won  my  heart  entirely.  He  asked  me  to  forgive 
him  if  he  had  to  go  away  before  I finished  my 
speech,  for  he  had  had  a very  exhausting  service 
the  day  before,  “ and  I am  an  old  man,  on  the 
sunny  side  of  sixty,”  he  added  as  if  in  apology. 

“ On  the  shady  side,  you  mean,”  amended  the 
Presbyterian  clergyman  who  was  on  the  committee. 
The  Cardinal  shook  his  head,  smiling. 

“ No,  doctor!  The  sunny  side  — nearer  heaven.” 

The  meeting  was  of  a kind  to  inspire  even  the 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


385 


dullest  speaker.  When  I finished  my  plea  for  the 
children  and  turned  around,  there  sat  the  Cardinal 
yet  behind  me,  though  it  was  an  hour  past  his  bed- 
time. He  came  forward  and  gave  me  his  blessing 
then  and  there.  I was  never  so  much  touched  and 
moved.  Even  my  mother,  stanch  old  Lutheran  that 
she  is,  was  satisfied  when  I told  her  of  it,  though,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  the  idea  of  her  son  consorting 
in  that  way  with  principalities  and  powers  in  the 
enemy’s  camp  must  have  been  a shock  to  her. 

Speaking  of  which,  reminds  me  of  the  one  brief 
glimpse  into  the  mysteries  of  the  universe  I had 
while  in  Galesburg,  111.,  the  same  year.  I had  been 
lecturing  at  Knox  College,  of  which  my  friend  John 
Finley  was  the  President.  It  rained  before  the 
meeting,  but  when  we  came  out,  the  stars  shone 
brightly,  and  I was  fired  with  a sudden  desire  to  see 
them  through  the  observatory  telescope.  The  pro- 
fessor of  astronomy  took  me  into  the  dark  dome 
and  pointed  the  glass  at  Saturn,  which  I knew  as  a 
scintillating  point  of  light,  said  to  be  a big  round 
ball  like  our  earth,  and  had  taken  on  trust  as  a mat- 
ter of  course.  But  to  see  it  hanging  there,  white 
and  big  as  an  apple,  suspended  within  its  broad  and 
shining  ring,  was  a revelation  before  which  I stood 
awe-stricken  and  dumb.  I gazed  and  gazed ; be- 
tween the  star  and  its  ring  I caught  the  infinite 
depth  of  black  space  beyond ; I seemed  to  see 


386 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


almost  the  whirl,  the  motion ; to  hear  the  morning 
stars  sing  together  — and  then  like  a flash  it  was 
gone.  Crane  my  neck  on  my  ladder  as  I might  I 
could  not  get  sight  of  it. 

“ But  where  did  she  go  ? ” I said,  half  to  myself. 
Far  down  in  the  darkness  came  the  old  professor’s 
deep  voice : — 

“ That  time  you  saw  the  earth  move.” 

And  so  I did.  The  clockwork  that  made  the 
dome  keep  up  with  the  motion  of  the  stars  — of 
our  world  rather  — had  run  down,  and  when  Saturn 
passed  out  of  my  sight,  as  I thought,  it  was  the 
earth  instead  which  I literally  saw  move. 

And  now  that  I am  on  my  travels  let  me  cross 
the  ocean  long  enough  to  say  that  my  digging 
among  the  London  slums  one  summer  only  served 
to  convince  me  that  their  problem  is  the  same  as 
ours,  and  is  to  be  solved  along  the  same  lines.  They 
have  their  ways,  and  we  have  ours,  and  each  has 
something  to  learn  from  the  other.  We  copied  our 
law  that  enabled  us  to  tear  down  slum  tenements 
from  the  English  statute  under  which  they  cleared 
large  areas  over  yonder  long  before  we  got  to  w^ork. 
And  yet  in  their  poor  streets  — in  “ Christian 
Street”  of  all  places — I found  families  living  in 
apartments  entirely  below  the  sidewalk  grade.  I 
found  children  poisoned  by  factory  fumes  in  a 
charitable  fold,  and  people  huddled  in  sleeping- 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


387 


rooms  as  I had  never  seen  it  in  New  York.  And 
when  I asked  why  the  police  did  not  interfere,  they 
looked  at  me,  uncomprehending,  and  retorted  that 
they  were  on  their  own  premises  — the  factory,  too 
— and  where  did  the  police  come  in  I told  them 
that  in  New  York  they  came  in  when  and  where 
they  saw  fit,  and  systematically  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  so  that  they  might  get  at  the  exact  facts.  As 
for  our  cave-dwellers,  we  had  got  rid  of  them  a long 
time  since  by  the  simple  process  of  dragging  out 
those  who  wouldn’t  go  and  shutting  the  cellar 
doors  against  them.  It  had  to  be  done  and  it  was 
done,  and  it  settled  the  matter. 

“ I thought  yours  was  a free  country,”  said  my 
policeman  conductor. 

“ So  it  is,”  I told  him,  “ freedom  to  poison  your- 
self and  your  neighbor  excepted.”  He  shook  his 
head,  and  we  went  on. 

But  these  were  mere  divergences  of  practice. 
The  principle  is  not  affected.  It  was  clear  enough 
that  in  London,  as  in  New  York,  it  was  less  a ques- 
tion of  transforming  human  nature  in  the  tenant 
than  of  reforming  it  in  the  landlord.  At  St.  Giles 
I found  side  by  side  with  the  work-house  a church, 
a big  bath  and  wash-house,  and  a school.  It  was 
the  same  at  Seven  Dials.  At  every  step  it  recalled 
the  Five  Points.  To  the  one  as  to  the  other, 
steeped  in  poverty  and  crime,  had  come  the  road- 


388 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


builder,  the  missionary,  the  school-teacher,  and  let 
light  in  together.  And  in  their  track  was  following, 
rather  faster  there  than  here  as  yet,  the  housing 
reformer  with  his  atoning  scheme  of  philanthropy 
and  five  per  cent.  That  holds  the  key.  In  the 
last  analysis  it  is  a question  of  how  we  rate  the 
brotherhood,  what  per  cent  we  will  take.  My 
neighbor  at  table  in  my  London  boarding-house 
meant  that,  though  he  put  it  in  a way  all  his  own. 
He  was  a benevolent  enough  crank,  but  no  friend 
of  preaching.  Being  a crank,  he  condemned  preach- 
ers with  one  fell  swoop : — 

“ The  parsons  ! ” he  said  ; “ my  ’evings,  what  hare 
they.^  In  hall  me  life  hive  known  only  two  that 
were  fit  to  be  in  the  pulpit.” 

Returning  to  my  own  country,  I found  the  con- 
viction deepening  wherever  the  slum  had  got  a 
grip,  that  it  was  the  problem  not  only  of  govern- 
ment but  of  humanity.  In  Chicago  they  are  set- 
ting limits  to  it  with  parks  and  playgrounds  and 
the  home  restored.  In  Cincinnati,  in  Cleveland,  in 
Boston,  they  are  bestirring  themselves.  Indeed,  in 
Boston  they  have  torn  down  more  foul  tenements 
than  did  we  in  the  metropolis,  and  with  less  sur- 
render to  the  slum  landlord.  In  New  York  a 
citizens’  movement  paved  the  way  for  the  last  Tene- 
ment-House Commission,  which  has  just  finished 
its  great  work,  and  the  movement  is  warrant  that 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME  389 

the  fruits  of  that  work  will  not  be  lost.  Listen  to 
the  arraignment  of  the  tenement  by  that  Commis- 
sion, appointed  by  the  State  : — 

“ All  the  conditions  which  surround  childhood, 
youth,  and  womanhood  in  New  York’s  crowded 
tenement  quarters  make  for  unrighteousness.  They 
also  make  for  disease.  . . . From  the  tenements 
there  comes  a stream  of  sick,  helpless  people  to 
our  hospitals  and  dispensaries  . . . from  them  also 
comes  a host  of  paupers  and  charity  seekers.  Most 
terrible  of  all  . . . the  fact  that,  mingled  with  the 
drunken,  the  dissolute,  the  improvident,  the  diseased, 
dwell  the  great  mass  of  the  respectable  workingmen 
of  the  city  with  their  families.” 

This  after  all  the  work  of  twenty  years!  Yet 
the  work  was  not  wasted,  for  at  last  we  see  the 
truth.  Seeing,  it  is  impossible  that  the  monstrous 
wrong  should  go  unrighted  and  government  of  the 
people  endure,  as  endure  it  will,  I know.  We  have 
only  begun  to  find  out  what  it  can  do  for  mankind 
in  the  day  when  we  shall  all  think  enough  about 
the  common  good,  the  res  publica,  to  forget  about 
ourselves. 

In  that  day,  too,  the  boss  shall  have  ceased  from 
troubling.  However  gross  he  wax  in  our  sight,  he 
has  no  real  substance.  He  is  but  an  ugly  dream 
of  political  distemper.  Sometimes  when  I hear 
him  spoken  of  with  bated  breath,  I think  of  the 


390 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Irish  teamster  who  went  to  the  priest  in  a fright ; 
he  had  seen  a ghost  on  the  church  wall  as  he  passed 
it  in  the  night. 

“ And  what  was  it  like  ? ” asked  the  priest. 

“ It  was  like  nothing  so  much  as  a big  ass,”  said 
Patrick,  wide-eyed. 

“Go  home,  Pat!  and  be  easy.  You’ve  seen 
your  own  shadow.” 

But  I am  tired  now  and  want  to  go  home  to 
mother  and  rest  awhile. 


CHAPTER  XV 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 

There  was  a heavy  step  on  the  stairs,  a rap  that 
sounded  much  as  if  an  elephant  had  knocked 
against  the  jamb  in  passing,  and  there  in  the  door 
stood  a six-foot  giant,  calmly  surveying  me,  as  if 
I were  a specimen  bug  stuck  on  a pin  for  inspec- 
tion, instead  of  an  ordinary  man-person  with  no 
more  than  two  legs. 

“Well?”  I said,  groping  helplessly  among  the 
memories  of  the  past  for  a clew  to  the  apparition. 
Somewhere  and  sometime  I had  seen  it  before; 
that  much  I knew  and  no  more. 

The  shape  took  a step  into  the  room.  “ I am 
Jess,”  it  said  simply,  “Jess  Jepsen  from  Lustrup.” 

“ Lustrup  ! ” I pushed  back  papers  and  pen  and 
strode  toward  the  giant  to  pull  him  up  to  the  light. 
Lustrup!  Talk  about  seven  league  boots!  that 
stride  of  mine  was  four  thousand  miles  Ions:,  if  it 
was  a foot.  It  spanned  the  stormy  Atlantic  and 
the  cold  North  Sea  and  set  me  down  in  sie:ht  of 
the  little  village  of  straw-thatched  farm-houses 
where  I played  in  the  long  ago,  right  by  the  dam 


391 


392 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


in  the  lazy  brook  where  buttercups  and  forget-me- 
nots  nodded  ever  over  the  pool,  and  the  pewit  built 
its  nest  in  spring.  Just  beyond,  the  brook  issued 
forth  from  the  meadows  to  make  a detour  around 
the  sunken  walls  of  the  old  manse  and  lose  itself 
in  the  moor  that  stretched  toward  the  western  hills. 
Lustrup ! Oh,  yes ! I pushed  my  giant  into  a 
chair  so  that  I might  have  a look  at  him. 


Ribe,  in  my  Childhood. 

Seen  from  Elisabeth’s  garden. 

He  was  just  like  the  landscape  of  his  native 
plain;  big  and  calm  and  honest.  Nothing  there 
to  hide;  couldn’t  if  it  tried.  And,  like  his  village, 
he  smelled  of  the  barn-yard.  He  was  a driver,  he 
told  me,  earning  wages.  But  he  had  his  evenings 
to  himself;  and  so  he  had  come  to  find,  through 
me,  a school  where  he  might  go  and  learn  English. 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


393 


Just  so!  It  was  Lustrup  all  over.  I remembered 
as  though  it  were  yesterday  the  time  I went  up  to 
have  a look  at  the  dam  I hadn’t  seen  for  thirty 
years,  and  the  sun-fish  and  the  pewit  so  anxiously 
solicitous  for  her  young,  and  found  the  brook 
turned  aside  and  the  western  earth-wall  of  the 
manse,  which  it  skirted,  all  gone ; and  the  story 
the  big  farmer,  Jess  Jepsen’s  father,  told  me  with 
such  quiet  pride,  standing  there,  of  how  because 
of  trouble  made  by  the  Germans  at  the  “ line  ” a 
mile  away  the  cattle  business  had  run  down  and 
down  until  the  farm  didn’t  pay ; how  he  and  “ the 
boy  ” unaided,  working  patiently  year  by  year  with 
spade  and  shovel,  had  dug  down  the  nine  acres  of 
dry  upland,  moved  the  wall  into  the  bottoms  and 
turned  the  brook,  making  green  meadow  of  the 
sandy  barren,  and  saving  the  farm.  The  toil  of 
twenty  years  had  broken  the  old  man’s  body,  but 
his  spirit  was  undaunted  as  ever.  There  was  a 
gleam  of  triumph  in  his  eye  as  he  shook  his  fist 
at  the  “line”  post  on  the  causeway.  “We  beat 
them,”  he  said  ; “ we  did.” 

They  did.  I had  heard  it  told  many  times  how 
this  brave  little  people,  driven  out  of  the  German 
market,  had  conquered  the  English  and  held  it 
against  the  world,  three  times  in  one  man’s  lifetime 
making^  a new  front  to  chanG:ed  industrial  condi- 
tions ; turning  from  grain-raising  to  cattle  pn  the 


394 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


hoof,  again  to  slaughtered  meat,  and  once  more 
to  dairy-farming,  and  holding  always  their  own. 
How,  robbed  of  one-third  of  their  country  by  a 
faithless  foe,  they  had  set  about  with  indomitable 
energy  to  reclaim  the  arid  moor,  and  in  one  genera- 
tion laid  under  the  plough  or  planted  as  woodland 
as  great  an  area  as  that  which  had  been  stolen  from 
them.  Ay,  it  was  a brave  record,  a story  to  make 
one  proud  of  being  of  such  a people.  I,  too,  heard 
the  pewit’s  plaint  in  my  childhood  and  caught  the 
sun-fish  in  the  brook.  I was  a boy  when  they 
planted  the  black  post  at  the  line  and  watered  it 
with  the  blood  of  my  countrymen.  Gray-haired 
and  with  old-time  roots  in  a foreign  soil,  I dream 
with  them  yet  of  the  day  that  shall  see  it  pulled  up 
and  hurled  over  the  river  where  my  fathers  beat 
back  the  southern  tide  a thousand  years. 

Jess?  He  went  away  satisfied.  He  will  be 
there,  when  needed.  His  calm  eyes  warranted 
that.  And  I- — I went  back  to  the  old  home,  to 
Denmark  and  to  my  mother;  because  I just  couldn’t 
stay  away  any  longer. 

We  had  wandered  through  Holland,  counting 
the  windmills,  studying  the  “explications”  set  forth 
in  painfully  elaborate  English  on  its  old  church 
walls  with  the  information  for  travellers  that  further 
particulars  were  to  be  obtained  of  the  sexton,  who 
might  be  found  with  the  key  “ in  the  neighborhood 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


395 


No.  5.”  We  had  argued  with  the  keeper  of  the 
Prinzenhof  in  Delft  that  William  the  Silent  could 
not  possibly  have  been  murdered  as  he  said  he 
was  — that  he  must  have  come  down  the  stairs  and 
not  gone  across  the  hall  when  the  assassin  shot  him, 
as  any  New  York  police  reporter  could  tell  from 
the  bullet-hole  that  is  yet  in  the  wall  — and  thereby 
wounding  his  patriotic  pride  so  deeply  that  an  extra 
fee  was  required  to  soothe  it.  I caught  him  looking 
after  us  as  we  went  down  the  street  and  shaking  his 
head  at  those  “wild  Americans”  who  accounted 
nothing  holy,  not  even  the  official  record  of  murder 
done  while  their  ancestors  were  yet  savages  roaming 
the  plains.  We  had  laughed  at  the  coal-heavers 
on  the  frontier  carrying  coal  in  baskets  up  a ladder 
to  the  waiting  engine  and  emptying  it  into  the 
fender.  And  now,  after  parting  company  with  my 
fellow-traveller  at  Hamburg,  I was  nearing  the  land 
where  once  more  I should  see  old  Dannebrog,  the 
flag  that  fell  from  heaven  with  victory  to  the  hard- 
pressed  Danes.  Literally  out  of  the  sky  it  fell  in 
their  sight,  the  historic  fact  being  apparently  that 
the  Christian  bishops  had  put  up  a job  with  the 
Pope  to  wean  the  newly  converted  Danes  away 
from  their  heathen  pirate  flag  and  found  their 
opportunity  in  one  of  the  crusades  the  Danes 
undertook  on  their  own  hook  into  wlmt  is  now 
Prussia.  The  Pope  had  sent  a silken  banner  with 


30 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  device  of  a white  cross  in  red,  and  at  the  right 
moment,  when  the  other  was  taken,  the  priest  threw 
it  down  from  a cliff  into  the  thick  of  the  battle  and 
turned  its  tide.  Ever  after,  it  was  the  flag  of  the 
Danes,  and  their  German  foes  had  reason  to  hate 
it.  Here  in  Slesvig,  through  which  I was  travel- 
ling, to  display  it  was  good  cause  for  banishment. 
But  over  yonder,  behind  the  black  post,  it  was 
waiting,  and  my  heart  leaped  to  meet  it.  Have  I 
not  felt  the  thrill,  when  wandering  abroad,  at  the 
sight  of  the  stars  and  stripes  suddenly  unfolding, 
the  flag  of  my  home,  of  my  manhood’s  years  and 
of  my  pride  ? Happy  he  who  has  a flag  to  love. 
Twice  blest  he  who  has  two,  and  such  two. 

We  have  yet  a mile  to  the  frontier  and,  with  the 
panorama  of  green  meadows,  of  placid  rivers,  and  of 
long-legged  storks  gravely  patrolling  the  marshes  in 
search  of  frogs  and  lizards,  passing  by  our  car-win- 
dow, I can  stop  to  tell  you  how  this  filial  pride  in 
the  flag  of  my  fathers  once  betrayed  me  into  the 
hands  of  the  Philistines.  It  was  in  London,  during 
the  wedding  of  the  Duke  of  York.  The  king 
and  queen  of  Denmark  were  in  town,  and  wher- 
ever one  went  was  the  Danish  flag  hung  out  in 
their  honor.  Riding  under  one  on  top  of  a Hol- 
born  bus,  I asked  a cockney  in  the  seat  next  to 
mine  what  flag  it  was.  I wanted  to  hear  him  praise 
it,  that  was  why  I pretended  not  to  know.  He  sur- 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


397 


veyed  it  with  the  calm  assurance  of  his  kind,  and 
made  reply : — 

“ That,  ah,  yes  ! It  is  the  sign  of  St.  John’s  ham- 
bulance  corps,  the  haccident  flag,  don’t  you'  know,” 
and  he  pointed  to  an  ambulance  officer  just  passing 
with  the  cross  device  on  his  arm.  The  Dannebrog 
the  “ haccident  dag  ” ! What  did  I do  ? What 
would  you  have  done  ? I just  fumed  and  suppressed 
as  well  as  I could  a desire  to  pitch  that  cockney  into 
the  crowds  below,  with  his  pipe  and  his  miserable 
ignorance.  But  I had  to  go  down  to  do  it. 

But  there  is  the  hoary  tower  of  the  old  Domkirke 
in  which  I was  baptized  and  confirmed  and  married, 
rising  out  of  the  broad  fields,  and  all  the  familiar 
landmarks  rushing  by,  and  now  the  train  is  slow- 
ing up  for  the  station,  and  a chorus  of  voices  shout 
out  the  name  of  the  wanderer.  Tliere  is  mother  in 
the  throng  with  the  glad  tears  streaming  down  her 
dear  old  face,  and  half  the  town  come  out  to  see 
her  bring  home  her  boy,  every  one  of  them  sharing 
her  joy,  to  the  very  letter-carrier  who  brought  her 
his  letters  these  many  years  and  has  grown  fairly  to 
be  a member  of  the  family  in  the  doing  of  it.  At 
last  the  waiting  is  over,  and  her  faith  justified.  Dear 
old  mother!  Gray-haired  I return,  sadly  scotclied 
in  many  a conflict  with  the  world,  yet  ever  thy  boy, 
thy  home  mine.  Ah  me  ! Heaven  is  nearer  to  us 
than  we  often  dream  on  earth. 


398 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


At  Home  in  the  Old  Town. 

The  last  time  we  were  all  together. 

How  shall  I tell  you  of  the  old  town  by  the  North 
Sea  that  was  the  home  of  the  Danish  kings  in  the 
days  when  kings  led  their  armies  afield  and  held 
their  crowns  by  the  strength  of  their  grip  ? Shall  I 
paint  to  you  the  queer,  crooked  streets  with  their 
cobblestone  pavements  and  tile-roofed  houses  where 
the  swallow  builds  in  the  hall  and  the  stork  on  the 
ridge-pole,  witness  both  that  peace  dwells  within  ? 
For  it  is  well  known  that  the  stork  will  not  abide 
with  a divided  house ; and  as  for  the  swallow,  a 
plague  of  boils  awaits  the  graceless  hand  that  dis- 
turbs its  nest.  When  the  Saviour  hung  upon  the 
cross,  did  it  not  perch  upon  the  beam  and  pour  forth 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


399 


its  song  of  love  and  pity  to  His  dying  ear,  “ Soothe 
Him  ! soothe  Him  ” ? The  stork  from  the  meadow 
cried,  “Strength  Him!  strength  Him!”  but  the 
wicked  pewit,  beholding  the  soldiers  with  their 
spears,  cried,  “ Pierce  Him!  pierce  Him!”  Hence 
stork  and  swallow  are  the  friends  of  man,  while  the 
pewit  dwells  in  exile,  fleeing  ever  from  his  presence 
with  its  lonesome  cry. 

Will  you  wander  with  me  through  the  fields  where 
the  blue-fringed  gentian  blooms  with  the  pink  bell- 
heather,  and  the  bridal  torch  nods  from  the  brook- 
side,  bending  its  stately  head  to  the  west  wind  that 
sweeps  ever  in  from  the  sea  with  touch  as  soft  as  of 
a woman’s  hand?  Flat  and  uninteresting?  Yes,  if 
you  will.  If  one  sees  only  the  fields.  My  children 
saw  them  and  longed  back  to  the  hills  of  Long 
Island  ; and  in  their  cold  looks  I felt  the  tugging 
of  the  chain  which  he  must  bear  through  life  who 
exiled  himself  from  the  land  of  his  birth,  however 
near  to  his  heart  that  of  his  choice  and  his  adoption. 
I played  in  these  fields  when  I was  a boy.  I fished 
in  these  streams  and  built  fires  on  their  banks  in 
spring  to  roast  potatoes  in,  the  like  of  which  I have 
never  tasted  since.  Here  I lay  dreaming  of  the 
great  and  beautiful  world  without,  watching  the  sky- 
lark soar  ever  higher  with  its  song  of  triumph  and 
joy,  and  here  I learned  the  sweet  lesson  of  love  that 
has  echoed  its  jubilant  note  through  all  the  years, 


400 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


and  will  until  we  reach  the  golden  gate,  she  and  I,  to 
which  love  holds  the  key. 

Uninteresting!  Say  you  so  But  linger  here 
with  me,  casting  for  pickerel  among  the  water-lilies 
until  the  sun  sets  red  and  big  over  the  sea  yon- 
der, and  you  shall  see  a light  upon  these  meadows 
where  the  grass  is  as  fine  silk,  that  is  almost  as  if 
it  were  not  of  earth.  And  as  we  walk  home 
through  the  long  Northern  twilight,  listening  to 
the  curlew’s  distant  call ; with  the  browsing  sheep 
looming  large  against  the  horizon  upon  the  green 
hill  where  stood  the  old  kings’  castle,  and  the  gray 
Dom  rearing  its  lofty  head  over  their  graves,  teem- 
ing with  memories  of  centuries  gone  and  past,  you 
shall  learn  to  know  the  poetry  of  this  Danish 
summer  that  holds  the  hearts  of  its  children  with 
such  hoops  of  steel. 

At  the  south  gate  the  “ gossip  benches  ” are  filled. 
The  old  men  smoke  their  pipes  and  doff  their  caps 
to  “ the  American  ” with  the  cheery  welcome  of 
friends  who  knew  and  spanked  him  with  hearty 
good  will  when  as  “ a kid  ” he  absconded  with  their 
boats  for  a surreptitious  expedition  up  to  the  lake. 
Those  boats ! heavy,  flat-bottomed,  propelled  with  a 
pole  that  stuck  in  the  mud  and  pulled  them  back 
half  the  time  farther  than  they  had  gone.  But  what 
fun  it  was  ! In  after  years  a steam  whistle  woke 
the  echoes  of  these  quiet  waters.  It  was  the  first 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


401 


one,  and  the  last.  The  railroad,  indeed,  came  to 
town,  long  after  I had  grown  to  be  a man,  and  a 
cotton-mill  interjected  its  bustle  into  the  drowsy 
hum  of  the  waterwheels  that  had  monopolized  the 
industry  of  the  town  before,  disturbing  its  harmony 
for  a season.  But  the  steamboat  had  no  successors. 


“The  ‘gossip  benches’  are  filled.” 

The  river  that  had  once  borne  large  ships  gradually 
sanded  up  at  the  mouth,  and  nothing  heavier  than 
a one-masted  lighter  has  come  up,  in  the  memory 
of  man,  to  the  cpiay  where  grass  grows  high 
among  the  cobblestones  and  the  lone  customs 
official  smokes  his  pipe  all  day  long  in  unbroken 
peace.  The  steamer  was  a launch  of  the  smallest. 


402 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


It  had  been  brought  across  country  on  a wagon. 
Some  one  had  bought  it  at  an  auction  for  a lark ; 
and  a huge  lark  was  its  year  on  the  waters  of  the 
Nibs  River.  The  whole  town  took  a sail  in  it  by 
turns,  always  with  one  aft  whose  business  it  was  to 
disentangle  the  rudder  from  the  mass  of  seaweed 
which  with  brief  intervals  suspended  progress,  and 
all  hands  ready  to  get  out  and  lift  the  steamer  off 
when  it  ran  on  a bank. 

There  came  a day  when  a more  than  commonly 
ambitious  excursion  was  undertaken,  even  to  the 
islands  in  the  sea,  some  six  or  seven  miles  from  the 
town.  The  town  council  set  out  upon  the  journey, 
with  the  rector  of  the  Latin  School  and  the  burgo- 
master, bargaining  for  dinner  on  their  return  at 
dusk.  But  it  was  destined  that  those  islands  should 
remain  undiscovered  by  steam  and  the  dinner  un- 
eaten. Barely  outside,  the  tide  left  it  high  and  dry 
upon  the  sands.  It  was  then  those  Danes  showed 
what  stuff  there  was  in  them.  The  water  would 
not  be  back  to  lift  them  off  for  six  hours  and  more. 
They  indulged  in  no  lamentations,  but  sturdily  pro- 
duced the  schnapps  and  sandwiches  without  which 
no  Dane  is  easily  to  be  tempted  out  of  sight  of  his 
home : the  rector  evolved  a pack  of  cards  from  the 
depths  of  his  coat  pocket,  and  upon  the  sandbank 
the  party  camped,  playing  a cheerful  game  of  whist 
until  the  tide  came  back  and  bore  them  home. 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


403 


The  night  comes  on.  The  people  are  returning 
from  their  evening  constitutional,  walking  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  and  taking  off  their  hats  to 
their  neighbors  as  they  pass.  It  is  their  custom, 
and  the  American  habit  of  nodding  to  friends  is 


held  to  be  evidence  of  backwoods’  manners  excus- 
able only  in  a people  so  new.  In  the  deep  recesses 
of  the  Domkirke  dark  shadows  are  gathering.  The 
tower  clock  peals  forth.  At  the  last  stroke  the 
watchman  lifts  up  his  chant  in  a voice  that  comes 
quavering  down  from  bygone  ages : — 

Andante. 


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Ho,  watchman  ! heard  ye  the  clock  strike  ten? 


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quick  and  bright,  Watch  fire  and  light, Our  clock  just  now  struck  ten. 


404 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


I shall  take  his  advice.  But  first  I must  go  to 
the  shoe-store  to  get  a box  of  polish  for  my  russet 
shoes.  Unexpectedly  I found  it  for  sale  there.  I 
strike  the  storekeeper  in  an  ungracious  mood.  He 
objects  to  being  bothered  about  business  just  when 
he  is  shutting  up  shop. 

“ There,”  he  says,  handing  me  the  desired  box. 
“ Only  one  more  left ; I shall  presently  have  to  send 
for  more.  Twice  already  have  I been  put  to  that 
trouble.  I don’t  know  what  has  come  over  the 
town.”  And  he  slams  down  the  shutter  with  a fret- 
ful jerk.  I grope  my  way  home  in  Egyptian  dark- 
ness, thanking  in  my  heart  the  town  council  for  its 
forethought  in  painting  the  lamp-posts  white.  It 
was  when  a dispute  sprang  up  about  the  price  of 
gas,  or  something.  Danish  disputes  are  like  the 
law  the  world  over,  slow  of  gait ; and  it  was  in  no 
spirit  of  mockery  that  a resolution  was  passed  to 
paint  the  lamp-posts  white,  pending  the  controversy, 
so  that  the  good  people  in  the  town  might  avoid 
running  against  them  in  the  dark  and  getting  hurt, 
if  by  any  mischance  they  strayed  from  the  middle 
of  the  road. 

Bright  and  early  the  next  morning  I found 
women  at  work  sprinkling  white  sand  in  the  street 
in  front  of  my  door,  and  strewing  it  with  winter- 
green  and  twigs  of  hemlock.  Some  one  was  dead, 
and  the  funeral  was  to  pass  that  way.  Indeed  they 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


405 


all  did.  The  cemetery  was  at  the  other  end  of  the 
street.  It  was  one  of  the  inducements  held  out  to 
my  mother  she  told  me,  when  father  died,  to  move 
from  the  old  home  into  that  street.  Now  that  she 
was  quite  alone,  it  v/as  so  “ nice  and  lively ; all  the 
funerals  passed  by.”  The  one  buried  that  day  I 
had  known,  or  she  had 
known  me  in  my  boyhood, 
and  it  was  expected  that  I 
would  attend.  My  mother 
sent  the  wreath  that  be- 
longs, — there  is  both  sense 
and  sentiment  in  flowers 
at  a funeral  when  they  are 
wreathed  by  the  hands  of 
those  who  loved  the  dead, 
as  is  still  the  custom  here ; 
none  where  they  are  bought 
at  a florist’s  and  paid  for 
with  a growl,  — and  we 
stood  around  the  coffin  and 
sang  the  old  hymns,  then  walked  behind  it,  two  by 
two,  men  and  women,  to  the  grave,  singing  as  we 
passed  through  the  gate. 

“ Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust.” 
The  clods  rang  upon  the  coffln  with  almost  cheer- 
ful sound,  for  she  whose  mortal  body  lay  within  was 
full  of  years  and  very  tired.  The  minister  paused. 


406  the  making  of  an  AMERICAN 

From  among  the  mourners  came  forth  the  nearest 
relative  and  stood  by  the  grave,  hat  in  hand.  Ours 
were  all  ol¥.  “ From  my  heart  I thank  you,  neigh- 
bors all,”  he  said,  and  it  was  over.  We  waited  to 
shake  hands,  to  speculate  on  the  weather,  safe  topic 
even  at  funerals ; then  went  each  to  his  own. 

I went  down  by  the  cloister  walk  and  sat  upon 
a bench  and  thought  of  it  all.  The  stork  had  built 
its  nest  there  on  the  stump  of  a broken  tree,  and 
was  hatching  its  young.  The  big  bird  stood  on 
one  leg  and  looked  down  upon  me  out  of  its  grave, 
unblinking  eye  as  it  did  forty  years  ago  when  we 
children  sang  to  it  in  the  street  the  song  about  the 
Pyramids  and  Pharaoh’s  land.  The  town  lay 
slumbering  in  the  sunlight  and  the  blossoming 
elders.  The  far  tinkle  of  a bell  came  sleepily 
over  the  hedges.  Once  upon  a time  it  called  the 
monks  to  prayers.  Ashes  to  ashes ! They  are 
gone  and  buried  with  the  dead  past.  To-day  it 
summons  the  Latin  School  boys  to  recitations. 
I shuddered  at  the  thought.  They  had  at  the 
school,  when  the  bell  called  me  with  the  rest,  a 
wretched  tradition  that  some  king  had  once  ex- 
pressed wonder  at  the  many  learned  men  who  came 
from  the  Latin  School.  And  the  rector  told  him 
why. 

“We  have  near  here,”  he  said,  “a  little  birch 
forest.  It  helps,  your  Majesty,  it  helps.”  Faith- 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


407 


fully  did  it  play  its  part  in  my  day,  though  I cannot 
bear  witness  that  it  helped.  But  its  day  passed,  too, 
and  is  gone.  The 
world  moves  and  all 
the  while  forward. 

Not  always  with  the 
speed  of  the  wind ; 
but  it  moves.  The 
letter-carrier  on  his 
collecting  rounds 
with  his  cart  has 
stopped  at  the  bleach- 
ing yard  where  his 
wife  and  little  boy  are 
hanmnof  out  wash- 

o o 

ing.  He  lights  his 
pipe  and,  after  a 
brief  rest  to  take  breath,  turns  to  helping  the  gude- 
wife  hang  the  things  on  the  line.  Then  he  packs  the 
dry  clothes  in  his  cart,  puts  the  boy  in  with  them 
and,  puffing  leisurely  at  his  pipe,  lounges  soberly 
homeward.  There  is  no  hurry  with  the  mail. 

There  is  not.  It  was  only  yesterday  that,  cross- 
ing the  meadows  on  a “ local,”  I found  the  train 
pulling  up  some  distance  from  the  village  to  let  an 
old  woman,  coming  puffing  and  blowing  from  a 
farm-house  with  a basket  on  her  arm,  catch  up. 

“Well,  mother,  can  she  hurry  a bit.^”  spake  the 


The  Ancient  Bellwoman. 


408  the  making  of  an  AMERICAN 

conductor  when  she  came  within  hearing.  They 
address  one  another  in  the  third  person  out  of  a 
sort  of  neighborly  regard,  it  appears. 

“ Now,  sonny,”  responded  the  old  woman,  as  she 
lumbered  on  board,  “ don’t  I run  as  fast  as  I can  ? ” 

“ And  has  she  got  her  fare,  now  ? ” queried  the 
conductor. 

“ Why,  no,  sonny  ; how  should  I have  that  till  I’ve 
been  in  to  sell  my  eggs  ? ” and  she  held  up  the  bas- 
ket in  token  of  good  faith. 

“Well,  well,”  growled  the  other,  “see  to  it  that 
she  doesn’t  forget  to  pay  it  when  she  comes  back.” 
And  the  train  went  on. 

Time  to  wait ! The  deckhand  on  the  ferry-boat 
lifts  his  hat  and  bids  you  God  speed,  as  you  pass. 
The  train  waits  for  the  conductor  to  hear  the  station- 
master’s  account  of  that  last  baby  and  his  assurance 
that  the  mother  is  doing  well.  The  laborer  goes 
on  strike  when  his  right  is  questioned  to  stop  work 
to  take  his  glass  of  beer  between  meals ; the  tele- 
graph messenger,  meeting  the  man  for  whom  he  has 
a message,  goes  back  home  with  him  “ to  hear  the 
news.”  It  would  not  be  proper  to  break  it  in  the 
street.  I remember  once  coming  down  the  chain 
of  lakes  in  the  Jutland  peninsula  on  a steamer  that 
stopped  at  an  out-of-the-way  landing  where  no  pas- 
sengers were  in  waiting.  One,  a woman,  was  made 
out,  though,  hastening  down  a path  that  lost  itself 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


409 


in  the  woods  a long  way  off.  The  captain  waited. 
As  she  stepped  aboard  another  woman  appeared  in 
the  dim  distance,  running,  too.  He  blew  his  whistle 
to  tell  her  he  was  waiting,  but  said  nothing.  When 
she  was  quite  near  the  steamer,  a third  woman  turned 
into  the  path,  bound,  too,  for  the  landing.  I looked 
on  in  some  fear  lest  the  steamboat  man  should  lose 
his  temper  at  length.  But  not  he.  It  was  only 
when  a fourth  and  last  woman  appeared  like  a 
whirling  speck  in  the  distance,  with  the  three  aboard 
making  frantic  signals  to  her 
to  hurry,  that  he  showed  signs 
of  impatience.  “ Couldn’t 
she,”  he  said,  with  some 
asperity,  as  she  flounced 
aboard,  “ couldn’t  she  get 
here  sooner?” 

“ No,”  she  said,  “ I couldn’t. 

Didn’t  you  see  me  run  ? ” 

And  he  rang  the  bell  to  start 
the  boat. 

Time  to  wait!  In  New 
York  I have  seen  men,  in 
the  days  before  the  iron 
gates  were  put  on  the  ferry-boats,  jump  wlien  the 
boat  was  yet  a yard  from  the  landing  and  run  as  if 
their  lives  depended  on  it ; then,  meeting  an  ac- 
quaintance in  the  street,  stop  and  chat  ten  minutes 


410 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


with  him  about  nothing.  How  much  farther  did 
they  get  than  these  ? When  all  Denmark  was  torn 
up  last  summer  by  a strike  that  involved  three- 
fourths  of  the  working  population  and  extended 
through  many  months,  to  the  complete  blocking 
of  all  industries,  not  a blow  was  struck  or  an  ill 
word  spoken  during  all  the  time,  determined  as 
both  sides  were.  No  troops  or  extra  police  were 
needed.  The  strikers  used  the  time  to  attend  uni- 
versity extension  lectures,  visit  museums  and  learn 
something  useful.  The  people,  including  many  of 
the  employers,  contributed  liberally  to  keep  them 
from  starving.  It  was  a war  of  principles,  and  it 
was  fought  out  on  that  line,  though  in  the  end 
each  gave  in  to  something.  Yes,  it  is  good,  some- 
times, to  take  time  to  think,  even  if  you  cannot  wait 
for  the  tide  to  float  you  off  a sandbank.  Though 
what  else  they  could  have  done,  I cannot  imagine. 

That  night  there  was  a great  to-do  in  the  old 
town.  The  target  company  had  its  annual  shoot, 
and  the  target  company  included  all  of  the  solid 
citizens  of  the  town.  The  “ king,”  who  had  made 
the  best  score,  was  escorted  with  a band  to  the 
hotel  on  the  square  opposite  the  Dorn,  and  made 
a speech  from  a window,  adorned  with  the  green 
sash  of  his  office,  and  flanked  by  ten  tallow-dips 
by  way  of  illumination.  And  the  people  cheered. 
Yes!  it  was  petty  and  provincial  and  all  that.  But 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER  41  z 

it  was  pleasant  and  neighborly,  and  oh  ! how  good 
for  a tired  man. 

When  I was  rested,  I journeyed  through  the 
islands  to  find  old  friends,  and  found  them.  The 
heartiness  of  the  welcome  that  met  me  everywhere ! 
No  need  of  their  telling  me  they  were  glad  to  see 
me.  It  shone  out  of  their  faces  and  all  over  them. 
I shall  always  remember  that  journey:  the  people 
in  the  cars  that  were  forever  lunching  and  urging 
me  to  join  in,  though  we  had  never  met  before. 
Were  we  not  fellow-travellers.^  How,  then,  could 
we  be  strangers  ? And  when  they  learned  I was 
from  New  York,  the  inquiries  after  Hans  or  Fritz, 
somewhere  in  Nebraska  or  Dakota.  Had  I ever 
met  them  ? and,  if  I did,  would  I tell  them  I had 
seen  father,  mother,  or  brother,  and  that  they  were 
well  ? And  would  I come  and  stay  with  them  a 
day  or  two  ? It  was  with  very  genuine  regret  that 
I had  mostly  to  refuse.  My  vacation  could  not  last 
forever.  As  it  was,  I packed  it  full  enough  to  last 
me  for  many  summers.  Of  all  sorts  of  things,  too. 
Shall  I ever  forget  that  ride  on  the  stage  up  the 
shore-road  from  Elsinore,  which  I made  outside 
with  the  driver,  a slow-going  farmer  who  had  con- 
scientious scruples,  so  it  seemed,  against  passing 
any  vehicle  on  the  road  and  preferred  to  take  the 
dust  of  them  all,  until  we  looked  like  a pair  of 
dusty  millers  up  there  on  the  box.  To  my  protests 


412 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


he  turned  an  incredulous  ear,  remarking  only  that 
there  was  always  some  one  ahead,  which  was  a fact. 
When  at  last  we  drew  near  our  destination  he  found 
himself  a passenger  short.  After  some  puzzled  in- 
quiry of  the  rest  he  came  back  and,  mounting  to 
his  seat  beside  me,  said  quietly : “ One  of  them  fell 
out  on  his  head,  they  say,  down  the  road.  I had 
him  to  deliver  at  the  inn,  but  it  can’t  be  blamed  on 
me,  can  it } ” 

He  was  not  the  only  philosopher  in  that  com- 
pany. Inside  rode  two  passengers,  one  apparently 
an  official,  sheriff,  or  something,  the  other  a doctor, 
who  debated  all  the  way  the  propriety  of  uniforming 
the  physician  in  attendance  upon  executions.  The 
sheriff  evidently  considered  such  a step  an  invasion 
of  his  official  privilege.  “Why,”  cried  the  doctor, 
“it  is  almost  impossible  now  to  tell  the  difference 
between  the  doctor  and  the  delinquent.”  “ Ah, 
well,”  sighed  the  other,  placidly  settling  back  in  his 
seat.  “Just  let  them  once  take  the  wrong  man, 
then  we  shall  see.” 

Through  forest  and  field,  over  hill  and  vale,  by 
the  still  waters  where  far  islands  lay  shimmering 
upon  the  summer  sea  like  floating  fairy-lands,  into 
the  deep,  gloomy  moor  went  my  way.  The  moor 
was  ever  most  to  my  liking.  I was  born  on  the 
edge  of  it,  and  once  its  majesty  has  sunk  into  a 
human  soul,  that  soul  is  forever  after  attuned  to  it. 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


413 


How  little  we  have  the  making  of  ourselves.  And 
how  much  o^reater  the  need  that  we  should  make 
of  that  little  the  most.  All  my  days  I have  been 
preaching  against  heredity  as  the  arch-enemy  of  hope 
and  effort,  and  here  is  mine,  holding  me  fast.  When 
I see,  rising  out  of  the  dark  moor,  the  lonely  cairn 
that  sheltered  the  bones  of  my  fathers  before  the 
White  Christ  preached  peace  to  their  land,  a great 
yearning  comes  over  me.  There  I want  to  lay 
mine.  There  I want  to  sleep,  under  the  heather 
where  the  bees  hum  drowsily  in  the  purple  broom 
at  noonday  and  white  shadows  walk  in  the  night. 
Mist  from  the  marshes  they  are,  but  the  people 
think  them  wraiths.  Half  heathen  yet,  am  I?  Yes, 
if  to  yearn  for  the  soil  whence  you  sprang  is  to  be  a 
heathen,  heathen  am  I,  not  half,  but  whole,  and  will 
be  all  my  days. 

But  not  so.  He  is  the  heathen  who  loves  not 
his  native  land.  Thor  long  since  lost  his  grip  on 
the  sons  of  the  vikings.  Over  the  battlefield  he 
drives  his  chariot  yet,  and  his  hammer  strikes  fire 
as  of  old.  The  British  remember  it  from  Nelson’s 
raid  on  Copenhagen;  the  Germans  felt  it  in  1849, 
and  again  when  in  the  fight  for  very  life  the  little 
country  held  its  own  a whole  winter  against  two 
great  powers  on  rapine  bent;  felt  it  at  Helgoland 
where  its  sailors  scattered  their  navies  and  drove 
them  from  the  sea,  beaten.  Yet  never  did  the 


414 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


White  Christ  work  greater  transformation  in  a peo- 
ple, once  so  fierce,  now  so  gentle  unless  when  fight- 
ing for  its  firesides.  Forest  and  field  teem  with 
legends  that  tell  of  it;  tell  of  the  battle  between  the 
old  and  the  new,  and  the  victory  of  peace.  Every 
hilltop  bears  witness  to  it. 


Holy  Andrew’s  Cross. 

Here  by  the  wayside  stands  a wooden  cross.  All 
the  country-side  knows  the  story  of  “ Holy  An- 
drew,” the  priest  whose  piety  wrought  miracles  far 
and  near.  Once  upon  a time,  runs  the  legend,  he 
went  on  a pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land,  and  was 
left  behind  by  his  companions  because  he  would 
not  sail,  be  wind  and  tide  ever  so  fair,  without  first 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


415 


going  to  mass  to  pray  for  a safe  journey.  When, 
his  devotions  ended,  he  went  to  the  dock,  he  saw 
only  the  sail  of  the  departing  craft  sinking  below 
the  horizon.  Overcome  by  grief  and  loneliness,  he 
stood  watching  it,  thinking  of  friends  at  home  whom 
he  mio^ht  never  ao^ain  see,  when  a horseman  reined 
in  his  steed  and  bade  him  mount  with  him he 
would  see  him  on  his  way.  Andrew  did,  and  fell 
asleep  in  the  stranger’s  arms.  When  he  awoke  he 
lay  on  this  hill,  where  the  cross  has  stood  ever 
since,  heard  the  cattle  low  and  saw  the  spire  of  his 
church  in  the  village  where  the  vesper  bells  were 
ringing.  Many  months  went  by  before  his  fellow- 
pilgrims  reached  home.  Holy  Andrew  lived  six 
hundred  years  ago.  A masterful  man  was  he,  be- 
side a holy  one,  who  bluntly  told  the  king  the  truth 
when  he  needed  it,  and  knew  how  to  ward  the  faith 
and  the  church  committed  to  his  keeping.  By  such 
were  the  old  rovers  weaned  from  their  wild  life. 
What  a mark  he  left  upon  his  day  is  shown  yet 
by  the  tradition  that  disaster  impends  if  the  cross 
»is  allowed  to  fall  into  decay.  Once  when  it  was 
neglected,  the  cattle-plague  broke  out  in  the  parish 
and  ceased,  says  the  story,  not  until  it  was  restored, 
when  right  away  there  was  an  end. 

Holy  Andrew’s  church  still  stands  over  yonder. 
Not  that  one  with  the  twin  towers.  That  has 
another  story  to  tell,  one  that  was  believed  to  be 


416  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

half  or  wholly  legend,  too,  until  a recent  restoration 
of  it  brought  to  light  under  the  whitewash  of  the 
reformation  mural  paintings  which  furnished  the 
lacking  proof  that  it  was  all  true.  It  was  in 
the  days  of  Holy  Andrew  that  the  pious  knight. 
Sir  Asker  Ryg,  going  to  the  war,  told  the  lady 
Inge  to  build  a new  church.  The  folk-song  tells 
what  was  the  matter  with  the  old  one  “ with  wall 
of  clay,  straw-thatched  and  grim  ” : — 

The  wall  it  was  mouldy  and  foul  and  green, 

And  rent  with  a crack  full  deep ; 

Time  gnaweth  ever  with  sharper  tooth, 

Leaves  little  to  mend,  I ween. 

Nothing  was  left  to  mend  in  the  church  of 
Fjenneslev,  so  she  must  build  a new.  “ It  is  not 
fitting,”  says  the  knight  in  the  song,  “ to  pray  to 
God  in  such  a broken  wrack.  The  wind  blows  in 
and  the  rain  drips  ” : — ■ 

Christ  has  gone  to  His  heavenly  home ; 

No  more  a manger  beseems  Him. 

“ And,”  he  whispers  to  her  at  the  leave-taking, 
“ an’  thou  bearest  to  our  house  a boy,  build  a 
tower  upon  the  church ; if  a daughter  come,  build 
but  a spire.  A man  must  fight  his  way,  but 
humility  becomes  a woman.” 

Then  the  fight,  and  the  return  with  victory;  the 
impatient  ride  that  left  all  the  rest  behind  as  they 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


417 


neared  home,  the  unspoken  prayer  of  the  knight 
as  he  bent  his  head  over  the  saddle-bow,  riding  up 
the  hill  over  the  edge  of  which  the  church  must 
presently  appear,  that  it  might  be  a tower ; and  his 
“ sly  laugh  ” when  it  comes  into  view  with  two 
towers  for  one.  Well  might  he  laugh.  Those 
twin  brothers  be- 
came the  makers 
of  Danish  history 
in  its  heroic  age ; 
the  one  a mighty 
captain,  the  other 
a great  bishop. 

King  Valdemar’s 
friend  and  coun- 
sellor, who  fought 
when  there  was 
need  “as  well  with 
sword  as  with 
book.”  Absalon 
left  the  country 
Christian  to  the 
core.  It  was  his  clerk,  Saxo,  surnamed  Grammaticus 
because  of  his  learning,  who  gave  to  the  world  the 
collection  of  chronicles  and  traditionary  lore  to 
which  we  owe  our  Hamlet. 

The  church  stands  there  with  its  two  towers. 
They  made  haste  to  restore  them  when  they  read 


41 8 THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

in  the  long-hidden  paintings  the  story  of  Sir 
Asker’s  return  and  gratitude,  just  as  tradition  had 
handed  it  down  from  the  twelfth  century.  It  is 
not  the  first  time  the  loyal  faith  of  the  people  has 
proved  a better  guide  than  carping  critics,  and 
likely  it  will  not  be  the  last. 

I rediscovered  on  that  trip  the  ancient  bellwoman, 
sole  advertising  medium  before  the  advent  of  the 
printing-press,  the  extinct  chimney-sweep,  the  orna- 
mental policeman  who  for  professional  excitement 
reads  detective  novels  at  home,  and  the  sacrificial 
rites  of  — of  what  or  whom  I shall  leave  unsaid. 
But  it  must  have  been  an  unconscious  survival  of 
something  of  the  sort  that  prompted  the  butcher 
to  adorn  with  gay  ribbons  the  poor  nag  led  to  the 
slaughter  in  the  wake  of  the  town  drummer.  He 
designed  it  as  an  advertisement  that  there  would 
be  fresh  horse-meat  for  sale  that  day.  The  horse 
took  it  as  a compliment  and  walked  in  the  proces- 
sion with  visible  pride.  And  I found  the  church 
in  which  no  collection  was  ever  taken.  It  was  the 
very  Dom  in  my  own  old  town.  The  velvet  purses 
that  used  to  be  poked  into  the  pews  on  Sundays 
on  long  sticks  were  missing,  and  I asked  about 
them.  They  had  not  used  them  in  a long  time, 
said  the  beadle,  and  added,  “ It  was  a kind  of 
Catholic  fashion  anyway,  and  no  good.”  The  pews 
had  apparently  suspected  as  much,  and  had  held 


WHEN  I WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER 


419 


“Horse-meat  to-day!” 

haughtily  aloof  from  the  purses.  That  may  have 
been  another  reason  for  their  going. 

The  old  town  ever  had  its  own  ways.  They 
were  mostly  good  ways,  though  sometimes  odd. 
Who  but  a Ribe  citfeen  would  have  thought  of 
Knud  Clausen’s  way  of  doing  my  wife  honor  on 
the  Sunday  morning  when,  as  a young  girl,  she 
w^ent  to  church  to  be  confirmed  ? Her  father  and 
Knud  were  neighbors  and  Knud’s  barn-yard  was  a 
sore  subject  between  them,  being  right  under  the 
other’s  dining-room  window.  He  sometimes  pro- 
tested and  oftener  offered  to  buy,  but  Knud  would 
neither  listen  nor  sell.  But  he  loved  the  ground 


420 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


his  neighbor’s  pretty  daughter  walked  upon,  as  did, 
indeed,  every  poor  man  in  the  town,  and  on  her 
Sunday  he  showed  it  by  strewing  the  offensive  pile 
with  fresh  cut  grass  and  leaves,  and  sticking  it 
full  of  flowers.  It  was  well  meant,  and  it  was 
Danish  all  over.  Stick  up  for  your  rights  at  any 
cost.  These  secure,  go  any  length  to  oblige  a 
neighbor. 

Journeying  so,  I came  from  the  home  of  dead 
kings  at  last  to  that  of  the  living,  — old  King 
Christian,  beloved  of  his  people,  — where  once  my 
children  horrified  the  keeper  of  Rosenborg  Palace 
by  playing  “ the  Wild  Man  of  Borneo  ” with  the 
official  silver  lions  in  the  o^reat  kniMits’  hall.  And 
I saw  the  old  town  no  more.  But  in  my  dreams 
I walk  its  peaceful  streets,  listen  to  the  whisper  of 
the  reeds  in  the  dry  moats  about  the  green  castle 
hill,  and  hear  my  mother  call  me  once  more  her 
boy.  And  I know  that  I shall  find  them,  with 
my  lost  childhood,  when  We  all  reach  home  at 
last. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


Long  ago,  when 
I found  my  work 
beginning  to  mas- 
ter me,  I put  up  a 
nest  of  fifty  pigeon- 
holes in  my  office 
so  that  with  sys- 
tem I might  get 
the  upper  hand  of 
it ; only  to  find,  as 
the  years  passed, 
that  I had  got  fifty 
tyrants  for  one. 

The  other  day  I 
had  to  call  in  a 
Hessian  to  help  me 
tame  the  pigeon-  ^ 

holes.  He  was  a serious  library  person,  and  he 
could  not  quite  make  out  what  it  meant  when 
among  such  heads  as  “Slum  Tenements,”  “The 


421 


422 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Bend,”  and  “ Rum’s  Curse,”  he  came  upon  this  one 
over  one  of  the  pigeonholes : — 

Him  all  that  goodly  company 
Did  as  deliverer  hail. 

They  tied  a ribbon  round  his  neck, 

Another  round  his  tail. 

With  all  his  learning,  his  education  was  not  fin- 
ished, for  he  had  missed  the  “ delectable  ballad  of 
the  Waller  lot”  and  Eugene  Field’s  account  of  the 
dignities  that  were  “ heaped  upon  Clow’s  noble  yel- 
low pup,”  else  he  would  have  understood.  The 
pigeonhole  contained  most  of  the  “ honors  ” that 
have  come  to  me  of  late  years,  — the  nominations  to 
membership  in  societies,  guilds,  and  committees,  in 
conventions  at  home  and  abroad,  — most  of  them 
declined,  as  I declined  Governor  Roosevelt’s  re- 
quest that  I should  serve  on  the  last  Tenement- 
House  Commission,  for  the  reason  which  I have 
given  heretofore,  that  to  represent  is  not  my  busi- 
ness. To  write  is;  I can  do  it  much  better  and 
back  up  the  other;  so  we  are  two  for  one.  Not 
that  I would  be  understood  as  being  insensible  of 
the  real  honor  intended  to  be  conferred  by  such 
tokens.  I do  not  hold  them  lightly.  I value  the 
good  opinion  of  my  fellow-men,  for  with  it  comes 
increased  power  to  do  things.  But  I would  reserve 
the  honors  for  those  who  have  fairly  earned  them, 
and  on  whom  they  sit  easy.  They  don’t  on  me.  I 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


423 


am  not  ornamental  by  nature.  Now  that  I have 
told  all  there  is  to  tell,  the  reader  is  at  liberty  to 
agree  with  my  little  boy  concerning  the  upshot  of  it. 
He  was  having  a heart-to-heart  talk  with  his  mother 
the  other  day,  in  the  course  of  which  she  told  him 
that  we  must  be  patient ; no  one  in  the  world  was 
all  good  except  God. 

“ And  you,”  said  he,  admiringly.  He  is  his  father’s 
son. 

She  demurred,  but  he  stoutly  maintained  his  own. 

“ I’ll  bet  you,”  he  said,  “if  you  were  to  ask  lots  of 
people  around  here  they  would  say  you  were  fine. 
But”  — he  struggled  reflectively  with  a button  — 
“ Gee ! I can’t  understand  why  they  make  such  a 
fuss  about  papa.” 

Out  of  the  mouth  of  babes,  etc.  The  boy  is  right. 
I cannot  either,  and  it  makes  me  feel  small.  I did 
my  work  and  tried  to  put  into  it  what  I thought 
citizenship  ought  to  be,  when  I made  it  out.  I wish 
I had  made  it  out  earlier  for  my  own  peace  of  mind. 
And  that  is  all  there  is  to  it. 

For  hating  the  slum  what  credit  belongs  to  me  ? 
Who  could  love  it  ? When  it  comes  to  that,  per- 
haps it  was  the  open,  the  woods,  the  freedom  of  my 
Danish  fields  I loved,  the  contrast  that  was  hateful. 
I hate  darkness  and  dirt  anywhere,  and  naturally 
want  to  let  in  the  light.  I will  have  no  dark  cor- 
ners in  my  own  cellar;  it  must  be  whitewashed 


424 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


clean.  Nature,  I think,  intended  me  for  a cobbler, 
or  a patch-tailor.  I love  to  mend  and  make  crooked 
things  straight.  When  I was  a carpenter  I preferred 
to  make  an  old  house  over  to  building  a new.  Just 
now  I am  trying  to  help  a young  couple  set  up  in 
the  laundry  business.  It  is  along  the  same  line ; 
that  is  the  reason  I picked  it  out  for  them.  If  any  of 
my  readers  know  of  a good  place  for  them  to  start 
I wish  they  would  tell  me  of  it.  They  are  just  two 
— young  people  with  the  world  before  them.  My 
office  years  ago  became  notorious  as  a sort  of  misfit 
shop  where  things  were  matched  that  had  got  mis- 
laid in  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  life,  in  which  some 
of  us  always  get  shoved  aside.  Some  one  has  got 
to  do  that,  and  I like  the  job ; which  is  fortunate, 
for  I have  no  head  for  creative  work  of  any  kind. 
The  publishers  bother  me  to  write  a novel ; editors 
want  me  on  their  staffs.  I shall  do  neither,  for  the 
good  reason  that  I am  neither  poet,  philosopher,  nor, 
I was  going  to  say,  philanthropist;  but  leave  me  that. 
I would  love  my  fellow-man.  For  the  rest  I am  a 
reporter  of  facts.  And  that  I would  remain.  So,  I 
know  what  I can  do  and  how  to  do  it  best. 

We  all  love  power  — to  be  on  the  winning  side. 
You  cannot  help  being  there  when  you  are  fighting 
the  slum,  for  it  is  the  cause  of  justice  and  right.  How 
then  can  you  lose  ? And  what  matters  it  how  you 
fare,  your  cause  is  bound  to  win.  I said  it  before. 


After  Twenty-five  Years. 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


425 


but  it  will  bear  to  be  said  again,  not  once  but  many 
times : every  defeat  in  such  a fight  is  a step  toward 
victory,  taken  in  the  right  spirit.  In  the  end  you  will 
come  out  ahead.  The  power  of  the  biggest  boss  is 
like  chaff  in  your  hands.  You  can  see  his  finish. 
And  he  knows  it.  Hence,  even  he  will  treat  you 
with  respect.  However  he  try  to  bluff  you,  he  is 
the  one  who  is  afraid.  The  ink  was  not  dry  upon 
Bishop  Potter’s  arraignment  of  Tammany  bestial- 
ity before  Richard  Croker  was  offering  to  sacrifice 
his  most  faithful  henchmen  as  the  price  of  peace ; 
and  he  would  have  done  it  had  the  Bishop  but 
crooked  his  little  finger  in  the  direction  of  any  one 
of  them.  The  boss  has  the  courage  of  the  brute, 
or  he  would  not  be  boss ; but  when  it  comes  to  a 
moral  issue  he  is  the  biggest  coward  in  the  lot. 
The  bigger  the  brute  the  more  abject  its  terror  at 
what  it  does  not  understand. 

Some  of  the  honors  I refused ; there  were  some 
my  heart  craved,  and  I could  not  let  them  go. 
There  hangs  on  my  wall  the  passport  Governor 
Roosevelt  gave  me  when  I went  abroad,  dearer  to 
me  than  sheepskin  or  degree,  for  the  heart  of  a 
friend  is  in  it.  What  would  I not  give  to  be 
worthy  of  its  faithful  affection ! Sometimes  when  I 
go  abroad  I wear  upon  my  breast  a golden  cross 
which  King  Christian  gave  me.  It  is  the  old  Cru- 
saders’ cross,  in  the  sign  of  which  my  stern  fore- 


426  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

fathers  conquered  the  heathen  and  themselves  on 
many  a hard-fought  field.  My  father  wore  it  for 
long  and  faithful  service  to  the  State.  I rendered 
none.  I can  think  of  but  one  chance  I had  to 
strike  a blow  for  the  old  flag.  That  was  when  in  a 
typhus  epidemic  I found  the  health  officers  using  it 
as  a fever  flag  to  warn  boats  away  from  the  emer- 
gency hospital  pier  at  East  Sixteenth  Street.  They 
had  no  idea  of  what  flag  it  was : they  just  hap- 
pened to  have  it  on  hand.  But  they  found  out 
quickly.  I gave  them  half  an  hour  in  which  to  find 
another.  The  hospital  was  full  of  very  sick  patients, 
or  I should  have  made  them  fire  a salute  to  old 
Dannebrog  by  way  of  reparation.  As  it  was,  I 
think  they  had  visions  of  ironclads  in  the  East 
River.  They  had  one  of  a very  angry  reporter, 
anyhow.  But  though  I did  nothing  to  deserve  it, 
I wear  the  cross  proudly  for  the  love  I bear  the 
flag  under  which  I was  born  and  the  good  old 
King  who  gave  it  to  me.  I saw  him  often  when  I 
was  a young  lad.  In  that  which  makes  the  man  he 
had  not  changed  when  last  I met  him  in  Copenha- 
gen. They  told  there  how  beggars  used  to  waylay 
him  on  his  daily  walks  until  the  police  threatened 
them  with  arrest.  Then  they  stood  at  a distance 
making  sorrowful  gestures;  and  the  King,  who 
understood,  laid  a silver  coin  upon  the  palace  win- 
dow shelf  and  went  his  way.  The  King  must  obey 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


427 


the  law,  but  he  can  forget  the  principles  of  alms- 
giving, as  may  the  rest  of  us  at  Christmas,  and  be 
blameless. 

Of  that  last  meeting  with  King  Christian  I 
mean  to  let  my  American  fellow-citizens  know 
so  that  they  may  understand  what  manner  of  man 
is  he  whom  they  call  in  Europe  its  “ first  gentle- 
man ” and  in  Denmark  “ the  good  King.”  But 
first  I shall  have  to  tell  how  my  father  came  to 
wear  the  cross  of  Dannebrog.  He  was  very  old 
at  the  time ; retired  long  since  from  his  post  which 
he  had  filled  faithfully  forty  years  and  more.  In 
some  way,  I never  knew  quite  how,  they  passed 
him  by  with  the  cross  at  the  time  of  the  retirement. 
Perhaps  he  had  given  offence  by  refusing  a title. 
He  was  an  independent  old  man,  and  cared  noth- 
ing for  such  things  ; but  I knew  that  the  cross  he 
would  gladly  have  worn  for  the  King  he  had  served 
so  well.  And  when  he  sat  in  the  shadow,  with  the 
darkness  closing  in,  I planned  to  get  it  for  him  as 
the  one  thing  I knew  would  give  him  pleasure. 

But  the  official  red  tape  was  stronger  than  1 ; 
until  one  day,  roused  to  anger  by  it  all,  I wrote 
direct  to  the  King  and  told  him  about  it.  I 
showed  him  the  wrong  that  had  l)een  done,  and 
told  him  that  I was  sure  he  would  set  it  right  as 
soon  as  he  knew  of  it.  And  I was  not  mistaken. 
The  old  town  was  put  into  a great  state  of  excite- 


428  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 

ment  and  mystification  when  one  day  there  arrived 
in  a large  official  envelope,  straight  from  the  King, 
the  cross  long  since  given  up ; for,  indeed,  the 
Minister  had  told  me  that,  my  father  having  been 
retired,  the  case  was  closed.  The  injustice  that 
had  been  done  was  itself  a bar  to  its  being  undone  ; 
there  was  no  precedent  for  such  action.  That  was 
what  I told  the  King,  and  also  that  it  was  his  busi- 
ness to  set  precedents,  and  he  did.  Four  years  later, 

when  I took  my  chil- 
dren home  to  let  my 
father  bless  them,  — 
they  were  his  only 
grandchildren  and 
he  had  never  seen 
any  of  them, — he  sat 
in  his  easy  chair  and 
wondered  yet  at  the 
queer  way  in  which 
that  cross  came. 
And  I marvelled 
with  him.  He  died 
without  knowing 
how  I had  interfered. 
It  was  better  so. 

It  was  when  I went  home  to  mother  that  I met 
King  Christian  last.  They  had  told  me  the  right 
way  to  approach  the  King,  the  proper  number  of 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


429 


bows  and  all  that,  and  I meant  to  faithfully  observe 
it  all.  I saw  a tired  and  lonely  old  man,  to  whom 
my  heart  went  out  on  the  instant,  and  I went  right 
up  and  shook  hands,  and  told  him  how  much  I 
thought  of  him  and  how  sorry  I was  for  his  losing 
his  wife,  the  Queen  Louise,  whom  everybody 
loved.  He  looked  surprised  a moment ; then  such 
a friendly  look  came  into  his  face,  and  I thought 
him  the  handsomest  King  that  ever  was.  He 
asked  about  the  Danes  in  America,  and  I told 
him  they  were  good,  citizens,  better  for  not  forget- 
ting their  motherland  and  him  in  his  age  and  loss. 
He  patted  my  hand  with  a glad  little  laugh,  and 
bade  me  tell  them  how  much  he  appreciated  it, 
and  how  kindly  his  thoughts  were  of  them  all. 
As  I made  to  go,  after  a long  talk,  he  stopped  me 
and,  touching  the  little  silver  cross  on  my  coat 
lapel,  asked  what  it  was. 

I told  him;  told  him  of  the  motto,  “In  His 
Name,”  and  of  the  labor  of  devoted  women  in  our 
great  country  to  make  it  mean  what  it  said.  As  I 
spoke  I remembered  my  father,  and  I took  it  off 
and  gave  it  to  him,  bidding  him  keep  it,  for  surely 
few  men  could  wear  it  so  worthily.  But  he  put 
it  back  into  my  hand,  thanking  me  with  a faithful 
grasp  of  his  own  ; he  could  not  take  it  from  me,  he 
said.  And  so  we  parted.  I thought  with  a pang 
of  remorse,  as  I stood  in  the  doorway,  of  the  part- 


430 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


ing  bow  I had  forgotten,  and  turned  around  to 
make  good  the  omission.  There  stood  the  King 
in  his  blue  uniform,  nodding  so  mildly  to  me,  with 
a smile  so  full  of  kindness,  that  I — why,  I just 
nodded  back  and  waved  my  hand.  It  was  very 
improper,  I dare  say;  perfectly  shocking;  but 
never  was  heartier  greeting  to  king.  I meant 
every  bit  of  it. 

The  next  year  he  sent  me  his  cross  of  gold  for 
the  one  of  silver  I offered  him.  I wear  it  gladly,  for 
the  knighthood  it  confers  pledges  to  the  defence 
of  womanhood  and  of  little  children,  and  if  I cannot 
wield  lance  and  sword  as  the  king’s  men  of  old,  I 
can  wield  the  pen.  It  may  be  that  in  the  provi- 
dence of  God  the  shedding  of  ink  in  the  cause  of  right 
shall  set  the  world  farther  ahead  in  our  day  than 
the  blood-letting  of  all  the  ages  past. 

These  I could  not  forego.  Neither,  when  friends 
gathered  in  the  King’s  Daughters’  Settlement  on 
our  silver  wedding  day,  and  with  loving  words  gave 
to  the  new  house  my  name,  could  I say  them  nay. 
It  stands,  that  house,  within  a stone’s  throw  of  many 
a door  in  which  I sat  friendless  and  forlorn,  trying 
to  hide  from  the  policeman  who  would  not  let  me 
sleep  ; within  hail  of  the  Bend  of  the  wicked  past, 
atoned  for  at  last ; of  the  Bowery  boarding-house 
where  I lay  senseless  on  the  stairs  after  my  first 
day’s  work  in  the  newspaper  office,  starved  well- 


The  Jacob  A.  Riis  House. 

No.  50  Henry  Street,  New  York. 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


431 


nigh  to  death.  But  the  memory  of  the  old  days 
has  no  sting.  Its  message  is  one  of  hope ; the 
house  itself  is  the  key-note.  It  is  the  pledge  of  a 
better  day,  of  the  defeat  of  the  slum  with  its  help- 
less heredity  of  despair.  That  shall  damn  no  longer 
lives  yet  unborn.  Children  of  God  are  we ! that  is 
our  challenge  to  the  slum,  and  on  earth  we  shall 
claim  yet  our  heritage  of  light. 

Of  home  and  neighborliness  restored  it  is  the 
pledge.  The  want  of  them  makes  the  great  gap  in 
the  city  life  that  is  to  be  our  modern  civic  life. 
With  the  home  preserved  we  may  look  forward 
without  fear ; there  is  no  question  that  can  be  asked 
of  the  Republic  to  which  we  shall  not  find  the 
answer.  We  may  not  always  agree  as  to  what  is 
right ; but,  starting  there,  we  shall  be  seeking  the 
right,  and  seeking  we  shall  find  it.  Ruin  and  dis- 
aster are  at  the  end  of  the  road  that  starts  from 
the  slum. 

Perhaps  it  is  easy  for  me  to  preach  contentment. 
With  a mother  who  prays,  a wife  who  fills  the 
house  with  song,  and  the  laughter  of  happy  chil- 
dren about  me,  all  my  dreams  come  true  or  coming 
true,  why  should  I not  be  content?  In  fact,  I know 
of  no  better  equipment  for  making  them  come  true: 
faith  in  God  to  make  all  things  possible  that  are 
right;  faith  in  man  to  get  them  done;  fun  enough 
in  between  to  keep  them  from  spoiling  or  running 


432 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


off  the  track  into  useless  crankery.  An  extra  good 
sprinkling  of  that ! The  longer  I live  the  more  I 
think  of  humor  as  in  truth  the  saving  sense.  A 
civil-service  examination  to  hit  home  might  well  be 
one  to  make  sure  the  man  could  appreciate  a good 
story.  For  all  editors  I would  have  that  kind  made 
compulsory.  Here  is  one  chiding  me  in  his  paper, 
— oh ! a serious  paper  that  calls  upon  parents  to 
“ insist  that  children’s  play  shall  be  play  and  not 
loafing  ” and  not  be  allowed  to  obscure  “ their  more 
serious  responsibilities,”  — chiding  me  for  encour- 
aging truancy ! “ We  are  quite  sure,”  he  writes, 

“ that  no  really  well-brought  up  and  well-disposed 
boy  ever  thinks  of  such  a thing.”  Perish  the 
thought ! And  yet,  if  he  should  take  the  notion,  — 
you  never  can  tell  with  the  devil  so  busy  all  the 
time,  — there’s  the  barrel  they  kept  us  in  at  school 
when  we  were  bad ; I told  of  it  before.  Putting 
the  lid  on  was  a sure  preventive ; with  our  little 
short  legs  we  couldn’t  climb  out.  Don’t  think  I 
recommend  it.  It  just  comes  to  me,  the  way  things 
will.  It  was  held  to  be  a powerful  means  of  bring- 
ing children  up  “ well  disposed  ” in  those  days. 

Looking  back  over  thirty  years  it  seems  to  me 
that  never  had  man  better  a time  than  I.  Enough 
of  the  editor  chaps  there  were  always  to  keep  up 
the  spirits.  The  hardships  people  write  to  me 
about  were  not  worth  while  mentioning ; and  any- 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


433 


way  they  had  to  be,  to  get  some  of  the  crankery  out 
of  me,  I guess.  But  the  friendships  endure.  For 
all  the  rebuffs  of  my  life  they  have  more  than  made 
up.  When  I think  of  them,  of  the  good  men  and 
women  who  have  called  me  friend,  I am  filled  with 


Christmas  Eve  v/ith  the  King’s  Daughters. 

wonder  and  gratitude.  I know  the  editor  of  the 
heavy  responsibilities  would  not  have  approved  of 
all  of  them.  Even  the  police  might  not  have  done  it. 
But,  then,  police  approval  is  not  a certificate  of  char- 
acter to  one  who  has  lived  the  best  part  of  his  life 
in  Mulberry  Street.  They  drove  Harry  Hill  out 


434 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


of  the  business  after  milking  him  dry.  Harry  Hill 
kept  a dive,  but  he  was  a square  man;  his  word 
was  as  good  as  his  bond.  He  was  hardly  a model 
citizen,  but  in  a hard  winter  he  kept  half  the  ward 
from  starving;  his  latch-string  hung  out  always  to 
those  in  need.  Harry  was  no  particular  friend  of 
mine ; I mention  him  as  a type  of  some  to  whom 
objection  might  be  made. 

But  then  the  police  would  certainly  disapprove  of 
Dr.  Parkhurst,  whom  I am  glad  to  call  by  the  name 
of  friend.  They  might  even  object  to  Bishop  Pot- 
ter, whose  friendship  I return  with  a warmth  that 
is  nowise  dampened  by  his  disapproval  of  reporters 
as  a class.  There  is  where  the  Bishop  is  mistaken ; 
we  are  none  of  us  infallible,  and  what  a good  thing 
it  is  that  we  are  not.  Think  of  having  an  infallible 
friend  to  live  alongside  of  always  ! How  long  could 
you  stand  it?  We  were  not  infallible,  James  Tan- 
ner!— called  Corporal  by  the  world,  Jim  by  us  — 
when  we  sat  together  in  the  front  seats  of  the  Old 
Eighteenth  Street  Church  under  Brother  Sim- 
mons’s teaching.  Far  from  it ; but  we  were  willing 
to  learn  the  ways  of  grace,  and  that  was  something. 
Had  he  only  stayed!  Your  wife  mothered  my 
Elisabeth  when  she  was  homesick  in  a strange  land. 
I have  never  forgotten  it.  And  you  could  pass 
civil  service,  Jim,  on  the  story  I spoke  of.  I would 
be  willing  to  let  the  rest  go,  if  you  will  promise  to 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


435 


forget  about  that  bottle  of  champagne.  It  was 
your  doings,  anyhow,  you  know. 

Amos  Ensign,  I did  not  give  you  the  credit  you 
should  have  had  for  our 
success  in  Mulberry 
Street  in  the  early  days, 
but  I give  it  to  you 
now.  You  were  loyal 
and  good,  and  you 
have  stayed  a reporter, 
a living  denial  of  the 
charge  that  our  pro- 
fession is  not  as  good 
as  the  best.  Dr.  Jane 
Elizabeth  Robbins,  you 
told  me,  when  I was 
hesitating  over  the  first  chapters  of  these  reminis- 
cences, to  take  the  short  cut  and  put  it  all  in,  and  I 
did,  because  you  are  as  wise  as  you  are  good.  I have 
told  it  all,  and  now,  manlike,  I will  serve  you  as 
your  sex  has  been  served  from  the  dawn  of  time : 
the  woman  did  it ! yours  be  the  blame.  Anthony 
Ronne,  dear  old  chum  in  the  days  of  adversity ; 
Max  Eischel,  trusty  friend  of  the  years  in  Mulberry 
Street,  who  never  said  “ can’t  ” once  — you  always 
knew  a way;  Brother  W.  W.  J.  Warren,  faithful  in 
good  and  in  evil  report ; General  C.  T.  Christen- 
sen, whose  compassion  passeth  understanding,  for. 


436 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


though  a banker,  you  bore  with  and  befriended  me, 
who  cannot  count ; Mrs.  Josephine  Shaw  Lowell,  my 
civic  conscience  ever;  John  H.  Mulchahey,  without 
whose  wise  counsels  in  the  days  of  good  govern- 
ment and  reform  the  battle  with  the  slum  would 
surely  have  gone  against  us;  Jane  Addams  and 
Mrs.  Emmons  Blaine,  leaven  that  shall  yet  leaven 
the  whole  unsightly  lump  out  yonder  by  the  west- 
ern lake  and  let  in  the  light;  A.  S.  Solomons,  Silas 
McBee,  Mrs.  Roland  C.  Lincoln,  Lilian  D.  Wald, 
Felix  Adler,  Endicott  Peabody,  Lyman  Abbott, 
Louise  Seymour  Houghton,  Jacob  H.  Schiff,  John 
Finley,  — Jew  and  Gentile  who  taught  me  why  in 
this  world  personal  conduct  and  personal  character 
count  ever  for  most,  — my  love  to  you  all!  It  is 
time  I am  off  and  away.  William  McCloy,  the 
next  time  I step  into  your  canoe  and  upset  it,  and 
you  turn  that  smiling  countenance  upon  me,  up  to 
your  neck  in  the  lake,  I will  surely  drown  you. 
You  are  too  good  for  this  world.  J.  Evarts  Tracy, 
host  of  my  happy  days  on  restful  Wahwaskesh  1 
I know  of  a certain  hole  in  under  a shelving  rock 
upon  which  the  partridge  is  wont  to  hatch  her 
young,  where  lies  a bigger  bass  than  ever  you  tired 
out  according  to  the  rules  of  your  beloved  sport, 
and  I will  have  him  if  I have  to  charm  him  with 
honeyed  words  and  a bean-pole.  And  Ainslie  shall 
cook  him  to  a turn.  Make  haste  then  to  the  feast ! 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


437 


Ahead  there  is  light.  Even  as  I write  the  little 
ones  from  Cherry  Street  are  playing  on  the  grass 
under  my  trees.  The  time  is  at  hand  when  we 
shall  bring  to  them  in  their  slum  the  things  .whkh. 
we  must  now  bring  them  to  see,  and  then  the  slum 


“The  little  ones  from  Cherry  Street.” 

will  be  no  more.  How  little  we  grasp  the  mean- 
ing of  it  all.  In  a report  of  the  Commissioner  of 
Education  I read  the  other  day  that  of  kindergar- 
ten children  in  an  Eastern  city  who  were  questioned 
63  per  cent  did  not  know  a robin,  and  more  than 
half  had  not  seen  a dandelion  in  its  yellow  glory. 


438 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


And  yet  we  complain  that  our  cities  are  misgov- 
erned! You  who  think  that  the  teaching  of  “civ- 
ics ” in  the  school  covers  it  all,  I am  not  speaking 
to  you.  You  will  never  understand.  But  the  rest 
of  you  who  are  willing  to  sit  with  me  at  the  feet  of 
little  Molly  and  learn  from  her,  listen : She  was 
poor  and  ragged  and  starved.  Her  home  was  a 
hovel.  We  were  debating,  some  good  women  who 
knew  her  and  I,  how  best  to  make  a merry  Christ- 
mas for  her,  and  my  material  mind  hung  upon 
clothes  and  boots  and  rubbers,  for  it  was  in  Chi- 
cago. But  the  vision  of  her  soul  was  a pair  of  red 
shoes  ! Her  heart  craved  them  ; aye,  brethren,  and 
she  got  them.  Not  for  all  the  gold  in  the  Treasury 
would  I have  trodden  it  under  in  pork  and  beans, 
smothered  it  in  — no,  not  in  rubber  boots,  though 
the  mud  in  the  city  by  the  lake  be  both  deep  and 
black.  They  were  the  window,  those  red  shoes, 
through  which  her  little  captive  soul  looked  out 
and  yearned  for  the  beauty  of  God’s  great  world. 
Could  I forget  the  blue  boots  with  the  tassels  which 
I worshipped  in  my  boyhood.^  Nay,  friends,  the 
robin  and  the  dandelion  we  must  put  back  into 
those  barren  lives  if  we  would  have  good  citizen- 
ship. They  and  the  citizenship  are  first  cousins. 
We  robbed  the  children  of  them,  or  stood  by  and 
saw  it  done,  and  it  is  for  us  to  restore  them.  That 
is  my  answer  to  the  missionary  who  writes  to  ask 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


439 


what  is  the  “ most  practical  way  of  making 
good  Christians  and  American  citizens  ” out  of 
the  emigrants  who  sit  heavy  on  her  conscience, 
as  well  they  may.  Christianity  without  the  robin 
and  the  dandelion  is  never  going  to  reach  down  into 
the  slum ; American  citizenship  without  them  would 
leave  the  slum  there,  to  dig  the  grave  of  it  and  of 
the  republic. 

Light  ahead ! The  very  battle  that  is  now 
waged  for  righteousness  on  the  once  forgotten  East 
Side  is  our  answer  to  the  cry  of  the  young  who, 
having  seen  the  light,  were  willing  no  longer  to  live 
in  darkness.  I know,  for  I was  one  of  the  com- 
mittee which  Dr.  Felix  Adler  called  together  in 
response  to  their  appeal  a year  ago.  The  Com- 
mittee of  Fifteen  succeeded  to  its  work.  “ What 
does  it  all  help  ? ” the  doubting  Thomases  have 
asked  a half-score  years,  watching  the  settlements 
build  their  bridge  of  hearts  between  mansion  and 
tenement,  and  hundreds  give  devoted  lives  of  toil 
and  sacrifice  to  make  it  strong  and  lasting;  and 
ever  the  answer  came  back,  sturdily:  “Wait  and 
see  ! It  will  come.”  And  now  it  has  come.  The 
work  is  bearing  fruit.  On  the  East  Side  the  young 
rise  in  rebellion  against  the  slum ; on  the  West 
Side  the  League  for  Political  Education  runs  a 
ball-ground.  Omen  of  good  sense  and  of  victory ! 
So  the  country  is  safe.  When  we  fight  no  longer 


My  Silver  Bride. 

knew  it  so  long  is  gone.  Cat  Alley,  whence  came 
the  deputation  of  ragamuffins  to  my 'office  demand- 
ing flowers  for  “ the  lady  in  the  back,”  the  poor  old 
scrubwoman  who  lay  dead  in  her  dark  basement, 
went  when  the  Elm  Street  widening  let  light  into 


440  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


for  the  poor,  but  with  the  poor,  the  slum  is  taken 
in  the  rear  and  beaten  already. 

The  world  moves.  The  Bend  is  gone;  the 
Barracks  are  gone ; Mulberry  Street  itself  as  I 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


441 


the  heart  of  our  block.  The  old  days  are  gone.  I 
myself  am  gone.  A year  ago  I had  warning  that 
“the  night  cometh  when  no  man  can  work,”  and 
Mulberry  Street  knew  me  no  more.  I am  still  a 
young  man,  not  far 
past  fifty,  and  I have 
much  I would  do 
yet.  But  what  if  it 
were  ordered  other- 
wise ? I have  been 
very  happy.  No  man 
ever  had  so  good  a 
time.  Should  I not 
be  content  ? 

I dreamed  a beau- 
tiful dream  in  my 
youth,  and  I awoke 
and  found  it  true. 

My  silver  bride  they 
called  her  just  now. 

The  frost  is  upon 
my  head,  indeed ; 
hers  winter  has  not 
touched  with  its  softest  breath.  Her  footfall  is  the 
lightest,  her  laugh  the  merriest  in  the  house.  The 
boys  are  all  in  love  with  their  mother;  the  girls 
tyrannize  and  worship  her  together.  The  cadet 
corps  elects  her  an  honorary  member,  for  no  stouter 


Here  comes  the  Baby  ! 


442 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


champion  of  the  flag  is  in  the  land.  Sometimes 
when  she  sings  with  the  children  I sit  and  listen, 
and  with  her  voice  there  comes  to  me  as  an  echo  of 
the  long  past  the  words  in  her  letter,  that  blessed 
first  letter  in  which  she  wrote  down  the  text  of  all 
my  after-life:  “We  will  strive  together  for  all  that 
is  noble  and  good.”  So  she  saw  her  duty  as  a true 
American,  and  aye ! she  has  kept  the  pledge. 

But  here  comes  our  daughter  with  little  Virginia 
to  visit  her  grandpapa.  Oh,  the  little  vixen  ! Then 
where  is  his  peace  ? God  bless  the  child ! 

I have  told  the  story  of  the  making  of  an  Ameri- 
can. There  remains  to  tell  how  I found  out  that 
he  was  made  and  finished  at  last.  It  was  when  I 
went  back  to  see  my  mother  once  more  and,  wan- 
dering about  the  country  of  my  childhood’s  memo- 
ries, had  come  to  the  city  of  Elsinore.  There 
I fell  ill  of  a fever  and  lay  many  weeks  in  the 
house  of  a friend  upon  the  shore  of  the  beautiful 
Oeresund.  One  day  when  the  fever  had  left  me 
they  rolled  my  bed  into  a room  overlooking  the  sea. 
The  sunlight  danced  upon  the  waves,  and  the  dis- 
tant mountains  of  Sweden  were  blue  against  the 
horizon.  Ships  passed  under  full  sail  up  and  down 
the  great  waterway  of  the  nations.  But  the  sun- 
shine and  the  peaceful  day  bore  no  message  to  me. 
I lay  moodily  picking  at  the  coverlet,  sick  and  dis- 


■X 


'-p:. 


That  minute  1 knew. 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


443 


couraged  and  sore  — I hardly  knew  why  myself. 
Until  all  at  once  there  sailed  past,  close  inshore,  a 
ship  flying  at  the  top  the  flag  of  freedom,  blown  out 
on  the  breeze  till  every  star  in  it  shone  bright  and 
clear.  That  moment  I knew.  Gone  were  illness, 
discouragement,  and  gloom!  Forgotten  weakness 
and  suffering,  the  cautions  of  doctor  and  nurse.  I 
sat  up  in  bed  and  shouted,  laughed  and  cried  by 
turns,  waving  my  handkerchief  to  the  flag  out 
there.  They  thought  I had  lost  my  head,  but  I 
told  them  no,  thank  God ! I had  found  it,  and  my 
heart,  too,  at  last.  I knew  then  that  it  was  my  flag; 
that  my  children’s  home  was  mine,  indeed  ; that  I 
also  had  become  an  American  in  truth.  And  I 
thanked  God,  and,  like  unto  the  man  sick  of  the 
palsy,  arose  from  my  bed  and  went  home,  healed. 


THE  MEN  WHO  MADE  THE  NATION 

An  Outline  of  the  History  of  the  United  States*  J760-f  865 

By' PROFESSOR  EDWIN  ERIE  SPARKS 

University  of  Chicago 

Illustrated.  Cloth.  Crown  8vo.  $2.00 


In  selecting  the  material  to  be  used  in  such  condensed  form 
the  author  has  evidently  endeavored  to  bring  the  original  sources 
as  far  as  possible  to  the  general  reader.  Extracts  from  the 
writings  of  the  various  men  under  consideration,  from  news- 
papers and  pamphlets,  from  the  current  poetry  or  song  of  their 
day,  frequently  appear.  In  fact,  nothing  seems  to  have  been 
neglected  which  would  add  to  the  interest  or  hold  the  attention 
of  the  reader.  To  the  same  end  the  book  is  profusely  illustrated 
with  half-tones  of  old  manuscripts,  cartoons,  views  of  historic 
places,  title  pages  of  rare  pamphlets,  etc.”  — Book  Reviews, 

“ Not  biographical  sketches,  but  a recital  of  the  chief  events 

of  the  past  century  and  a half,  involved  in  making  the  American 

* 

people  what  they  are  to-day.”  — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

Professor  Edwin  Erie  Sparks,  of  the  University  of  Chicago, 
has  written  the  history  with  the  idea  that  men  are  of  more  interest 
to  the  general  reader  than  measures,  and  has  therefore  endeavored 
to  keep  the  personal  element  in  mind.”  — Commercial  Advertiser, 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


SIDE  LIGHTS  ON  AMERICAN  HISTORY 

By  HENRY  W.  ELSON,  A.M. 

Lecturer  of  the  American  Society  for  the  Extension  of 
University  Teaching 

Series  L — National  Period  before  the  Civil  "War 
Series  !!♦  — The  Civil  War  and  Our  Own  Times 

12 mo.  Cloth.  Price,  75  cents  each 


CONTENTS -VOLUME  I. 

Chapter  I.  — Declaration  of  Independence.  Chapter  II.  — Framing  of  the 
Constitution.  Chapter  III.  — The  Inauguration  of  Washington.  Chap- 
ter IV.  — The  Alien  and  Sedition  Laws.  Chapter  V.  — Fulton  and  the 
Steamboat.  Chapter  VI. — The  Lewis  and  Clarke  Expedition.  Chapter 
VII.  — Conspiracy  of  Aaron  Burr.  Chapter  VIII. — The  Missouri  Com- 
promise. Chapter  IX.  — The  Monroe  Doctrine.  Chapter  X.  — Lafay- 
ette's Visit.  Chapter  XL — The  Caroline  Affair.  Chapter  XII.  — The 
Campaign  of  1840.  Chapter  XIII.  — Discovery  of  Gold  in  California. 
Chapter  XIV.  — The  Underground  Railroad.  Chapter  XV.  — The  Kan- 
sas-Nebraska  Bill.  Chapter  XVI. — The  Lincoln-Douglas  Debates. 
Chapter  XVII.  — History  of  Political  Parties.  Chapter  XVIII.  — Rela- 
tion of  the  States  to  the  Nation. 

CONTENTS  — VOLUME  II. 

Chapter  I.  — The  Presidential  Election  of  i860.  Chapter  II.  — Secession. 
Chapter  III.  — Great  Leaders  in  Congress  during  the  War.  Chapter 
IV.  — Events  Leading  up  to  the  Civil  War.  Chapter  V. — The  Battle 
of  Gettysburg.  Chapter  VI.  — Causes  of  Northern  Success.  Chapter 
VII.  — Reconstruction.  Chapter  VIII.  — Impeachment  and  Trial  of 
Andrew  Johnson.  Chapter  IX. — The  Alabama  Claims.  Chapter  X. — 
The  Liberal  Republican  Movement  of  1872.  Chapter  XL  — The  Dis- 
puted Presidential  Election  of  1876.  Chapter  XII. — The  Garfield 
Tragedy.  Chapter  XIII.  — A Century  of  Tariff  Legislation.  Chapter 
XIV.  — The  Spanish  War, 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


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The  making  of  an  American  / 


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